


Serpent of Eden, Original Tempter

by noodlefrog



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bodyswap, Crowley's Trial, Don't copy to another site, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Language of Flowers, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Multi, Not Britpicked, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, The Trial, canon-typical alcohol use, drama queen Aziraphale, implied Beelzebub/Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog
Summary: During Crowley’s trial, the agents of Hell present evidence that the demon has been fraternizing with the enemy. Careful to protect Crowley’s pride (and his own concealed feelings), Aziraphale turns on the saunter and leans into his friend’s reputation as a tempter to spin their relationship into something that looks more demonic than lunch dates and feeding the ducks.





	1. How to Tempt an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> **Update:** Please check out the podfic made by the incredibly talented [Emamel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel)! The link is in the end notes.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I've seen meta floating around talking about how when Aziraphale and Crowley are in each other's bodies, they present their counterpart the way they see them, even when faced with death: for Aziraphale, that's an utterly cool, collected, and bold Crowley, and for Crowley it's an honorable, brave, and dedicated Aziraphale.
> 
> The thought occurred to me that Aziraphale might go slightly too far given the chance to start sauntering around and making snarky comments, especially when he's having to confront how he feels about his demon. Presented here is his half of the trial and the consequences it has.
> 
> I've read the book, but this is pretty much all TV-verse. Not beta'd.

Initially, Aziraphale had been pleasantly surprised that Hell had arranged a trial for him. Of course, it was rigged with no way for him to get out of whatever horrific fate they’d planned for him, but it was more than he’d expected them to do for the Traitor of Hell. It was also, very clearly, intended partly as entertainment for the crowd of demons crowded behind the dirty glass, to provide an outlet for the bloodlust they did not get to unleash on the Host of Heaven, and partly so that the demonic higher-ups could watch Crowley squirm before they killed him. The trial was also very, very long and Aziraphale lost track of what, exactly, they were accusing him of now. He was unsure of how much time had passed since he had been hauled before the court—perhaps that was part of the nature of Hell, that it could stretch minutes into hours and hours into years. Fortunately, the real Crowley was excellent at appearing bored and so Aziraphale leaned into that interpretation of his character.

“And! You have also been found to have been fraternizing with an angel.” Hastur spat.

The list of crimes had been so incredibly long at this point that Aziraphale’s low-grade panic that had been the background noise to his performance was starting to give way to irritation. _Fraternizing with an angel._ They’d been side-by-side at the airbase, had stopped Armageddon together. Of _course_ he and Crowley were in cahoots. If the demons were including charges that were this blatantly obvious, Aziraphale had concerns that they were going to start listing off every mundane thing Crowley had ever done and he would be stuck here listening to them for all eternity. Maybe that was the punishment, instead of Holy Water. In that case, Aziraphale was confused about the presence of the bathtub.

He cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head before answering. “Found?” Aziraphale drawled, “Big discovery, that one. What gave it away?”

Hastur smirked and looked up at Beelzebub, still lounging in their throne. “Your Dishonor, I wanna present the evidence.”

Beelzebub waved a disinterested hand as Hastur’s slimy smile grew tighter and wider.

“Evidence?” Aziraphale repeated, incredulous, “You need evidence of that? I mean. You were there, Lord Beelzebub. Yesterday. You saw us. I admit it! We worked together.”

Hastur let out a high, wheezy laugh. “You gonna pretend it was all business, then? Dagon, show ‘em the pictures.”

Aziraphale did not know if demons besides Crowley ate food, or even knew all that much about the concept, but the way Hastur savored the words as he spoke them made him look like he was slowly working his way through a rich dessert.

Dagon’s sharp teeth clicked together in a smile not unlike death rictus as they snapped their fingers. A pristine, gold-edged file folder appeared in their other hand.

“We received your file from Upstairs, Crowley,” they said, “You’ve certainly been busy up on Earth.”

Their scaled fingers flipped through the contents of the folder as they searched for something. They looked at Aziraphale as they produced a shiny, black and white photograph of himself and Crowley laughing over glasses of wine at the Ritz. As they lowered their hand back to the folder, the photograph lingered in the air and began a slow cycle of the trial room, floating in a wide enough arc to let the demons outside get a good look.

Hastur crowed. “That prissy angel made you take him to dinner first!”

Dagon kept pulling more and more photos out of the folder and adding them to the revolving display. Dinners, brunches, walks in the park, visits to the theatre, Crowley outside the bookshop (once with flowers), Aziraphale getting into the Bentley. Judging by their clothes, some of these photographs seem to date back centuries. The demons outside began to press up against the window again, laughing and pointing. A few made rude hand gestures. Beelzebub did not move to quiet them, instead looking very intently at any sign of reaction from Aziraphale.

_How long had Heaven been accumulating this file? _ Aziraphale looked at the floating images and had to admit that, to an outside observer, it did, in a certain light, look less like the two were engaging in covert meetings as a part of a thousand-year long clandestine Arrangement between two ancient foes and more like…

Dates.

Uriel’s words echoed back at him in his mind. _Your boyfriend in the dark glasses. _

Aziraphale was grateful that he’d turned off Crowley’s vessel’s circulatory system earlier in the day, because the idea of blushing scarlet in front of a room full of Crowley’s hellish coworkers, while wearing Crowley’s face, wasn’t something he thought he’d be able to live down easily.

Heaven and Hell did not just think they were working together. They thought they were… _Together. _ Hell, at least, thought they’d been lovers. And looking at Hastur, still cackling, who looked like he thought that was the funniest thing he’d heard in an age, they intended to use it to humiliate Crowley before they killed him.

_This was it_, Aziraphale thought dully. The thing he’d been terrified of for centuries. This fear that had been Aziraphale’s second-oldest companion, with him almost as long as Crowley himself had been. It arrived soon after the demon had, showing up the second time he and Crowley had ever crossed paths and the possibility of something like companionship had made itself first known. And now, here that fear was, fully realized in front of Aziraphale in the form of a crowd of laughing demons. Hell knew about their Arrangement, and they wanted to hurt Crowley for it—kill him—destroy him, utterly. This fear had been the reason for countless goodbyes he and the demon had shared across millennia, for innumerable bitter fights, and for far too many of the cruel words he had said to Crowley and couldn’t take back.

Beyond even all that, somehow, Hell also knew about the things that lurked in the parts of Aziraphale’s heart that he liked to pretend didn’t exist. Things Aziraphale had never shared with another soul, especially not with Crowley himself.

And Hell was treating all of it like a big fucking joke.

If they both got out of this alive, he couldn’t let Crowley find out about this through jokes from Hell. He didn’t really want to let him find out about it at all. Aziraphale had put a name to his feelings towards his best friend some time ago, but it was a name that he kept buried deep inside him. Crowley, on the other hand. Well. Aziraphale did not fully understand what the demon got out of socializing with him, because at this point it couldn’t all be just for the Arrangement. _It wasn’t love,_ he thought bitterly, _or I would have sensed it by now._ What it was, though, was still a mystery.

No, he couldn’t let this end as a joke. First, Aziraphale was sure the implication would be terribly embarrassing to his friend. Second, he couldn’t bear the thought of Crowley prying into why all of Heaven and Hell thought they were closer than they were. The demon might realize how Aziraphale felt, and he didn’t think he could lie to his friend about this if asked outright. Demons were supposed to eschew things like tenderness and longing, and Aziraphale feared the discovery might result in their time together becoming uncomfortable and strained. He couldn’t run the risk of a century-long nap—or worse, his demon cutting ties with him altogether. Even if it could never be anything more, Crowley’s friendship was more precious to him than every book on Earth, every bite of food he’d ever tasted, and the lives of every human they had just saved not twenty-four hours preciously.  
He had to do something.

_Do it with style_, Aziraphale thought, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops and rocking back on his heels. “Thought this was a trial,” he quipped, loud enough to be heard over the clamor outside while still sounding nonchalant, “Didn’t realize I’d be getting a commendation while I was down here, too.”

“Silenzzze,” Beelzebub droned, “This izzzz clearly a trial, I don’t zzzzee where you got confuzzzed—”

Aziraphale stretched out his arms, an exaggerated full-body shrug, long fingers spread apart. “Serpent of Eden, remember? Original Tempter. Don’t know why I’m on trial for _doing my job_.”

Dagon blinked at him, fingers leaving slimy marks on the now-empty folder. “You never indicated in any of your reports that you were tempting the Principality Aziraphale into lust.”

Lust.

Oh—_Somebody_.

Aziraphale realized he was standing too still to be Crowley. He took the energy that would (if not for the deactivated circulatory system) be burning his ears and channeled it into the best saunter he could manage, snaking around in a tight figure eight to get a good look at the demons pressed up behind the glass. They were all watching him with open curiosity now.

He could see why the demons would come to that conclusion, really, he did, and it made him more determined than ever to keep those feelings on lockdown if—no, _when_, he got back to Crowley. Looking at his own face drifting past him in the photographs, looking alternately like a lovesick idiot and a starving man looking at a fresh-baked pie through a plate glass window, he was simultaneously surprised and grateful that Crowley had apparently never picked up on that. The angel did, in fact, look to be thoroughly tempted.

Aziraphale steadied himself before rounding to face his accusers again. He had an image to maintain. Crowley’s. The demon with a long history of taking credit for humanity’s fits of cruelty and carnage. What would be the harm in one more case of misplaced attribution? It felt a little cruel, saying it with his friend’s lips, but at this point, the angel might as well go all the way.

“Thought it would be pretty apparent when he’d come crashing through the ceiling,” Aziraphale said, smirking, “First angel to Fall since the Great War and all that.”

Whatever his friend wanted out of their relationship, Aziraphale at least doubted that he was planning a betrayal six millennia in the making. They had stopped the end of the world together. He owed Crowley at least that trust. Basic as it was, it had been something he'd never been able to allow himself to fully give, at least until now. In the early days, when he’d first begun to contemplate his feelings towards Crowley, he’d taken sick comfort in the idea that perhaps all that he was experiencing was just the result of demonic influence. It was an easy explanation, one that required no further introspection. For too many centuries Aziraphale used this as an excuse to push his friend away, and even in recent years he found himself leaning on the idea to help him keep his distance, even though he felt like a hypocrite doing it. Fear was a hell of a third wheel.

Beelzebub seemed to consider his point. “Principality Azzzziraphale has not Fallen.”

Aziraphale nodded, conceding the point. “With humans, you can just put the thoughts in their heads. You can say to them, _“Bet it would be fun to go shag that other fellow’s wife”_, and a lot of the time they go do it. If you tried that with an angel, you’d be smote on the spot. Just an ash pile. Tempting an angel is a long game.”

“So you’re tellin’ me,” Hastur cut in, disgusted and confused in equal measure, “You followed that angel around for Satan knows how long, cooed over him and played footsie and the angel didn’t even _put out_?” More laughter from behind the glass.

So, yes. Hell definitely assumed they were lovers in all of the senses of the term.

“I knew you were stupid, Hastur, but I didn’t think you were unable to recognize a master at work.” Aziraphale gave him a patronizing look over the tops of his sunglasses. Hastur snarled and lunged forward, but Beelzebub’s hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

“Tell uzzzzzz, Crowley. How doezzzzzz a demon tempt an angel?” The Lord of Hell was looking at him with a completely neutral expression, but their eyes were intense and focused.

Aziraphale smirked. “You have to make him think it was his idea. It’s an art. A seduction of epic proportions, to get him to choose you over Heaven. It takes more than raw sex appeal, though I suppose that helps, too,” Aziraphale gave his borrowed body a theatrical glance, not long enough to be weird or out of character for the vain little demon, then looked Hastur in the eye and continued with very real disdain, “Requires subtlety, not that some of you lot would get that. It takes time. Patience. I was almost there. I knew the angel was getting close to his breaking point.”

Dagon’s wide fishy eyes kept glancing between his face and the floating photographs. “Why lust?” They asked, after a pause, “Looking at your choice of venue over the years, one would think that it would have been easier to tempt the Principality into gluttony. He certainly seemed to show an interest in human foods.”

“That’s the point,” Aziraphale responded, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation, “Tempting him into gluttony wouldn’t work because he just thought of eating food as showing appreciation for the humans and their creations. And it isn’t a sin to just eat something and like it. You’d have to take so much for yourself that others didn’t have enough.”

“Why not another sin, then? Pride, perhaps. Your reports from Earth never indicated much history of tempting with lust.”

Before Aziraphale could begin to unpack _ that _ statement, Hastur cut in. “We all know why,” He called out, clearly trying to stir up the demons in the hall outside again, “You just wanted a piece of angel arse!” He was rewarded with a titter of laughter from behind the glass, but it fell short of the cackles his taunts had inspired earlier. The demons seemed eager to hear the rest of it.

“Well, yeah. Obviously,” Aziraphale said, on a roll now, “I mean, who wouldn’t? Honestly, don’t tell me that if any of you got a chance to shag an angel, you’d turn it down.”

Outside, perhaps louder than they had intended to, one of the demons said, “I wanna shag an angel.”

Aziraphale pointed at them. Well, in their general direction. He hadn’t actually seen which one of them had said it. “You see? That one gets it. You wanna know why? It’s never been done before. First demon to seduce an angel, that’d make history, wouldn’t it?”

Beelzebub seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, as they were busy picking gore out from beneath their fingernails with the edge of one of the medals pinned to their sash.

Aziraphale decided to press his advantage while he had it. Blasphemy didn’t count while he was in a demon’s body, did it? And besides, he was doing all of this for l—for his good friend Crowley, to keep him safe and out of suspicion from Below.

“Dagon, you suggested pride. I mean, have you looked at those feathery gits lately? They have so much pride they don’t even recognize it. They think they’re better than us, better than everyone. And clearly, that hasn’t been enough to make them Fall. And take wrath. Seems half of what they do Upstairs is smite this, smite that, level a city, enact divine punishment. They’ve rationalized it. You can’t tempt them into it. But lust?” Aziraphale laughed, probably the most openly salacious sound he’d let out of his mouth in front of other people, “Lust is pretty unambiguous, I’d think. You either tempt them into it or you don’t. I mean, you can’t tell me you think those stuffed shirts Upstairs figured that one out on their own. Look at Gabriel. You think Gabriel fucks?” It was Aziraphale’s turn to earn crude laughter from the watching demons.

Something inscrutable was going on behind Beelzebub’s stare, and Aziraphale couldn’t place it. After a pause, they shook their head and waved towards Dagon. “Consider that charge dropped.”

Hastur’s mouth opened so wide, Aziraphale was surprised it didn’t catch some of Beelzebub’s flies. “But—Lord Beelzebub! —the evidence—”

Aziraphale dropped into a mock bow, like the one Crowley had given to them at the airfield. Beelzebub gave him a withering look.

“Don’t think becauzze you seduzzzzed an angel the rest of this doesn’t matter, Crowley. You still betrayed uzzzz, and for that, you will still pay,” The Lord of Hell droned, waving a lazy hand in the direction of their prosecutor, “The rest of the chargezzzz, Hastur.”

There was a pause, as Hastur continued to gape, and when it seemed unlikely that he would recover and start listing charges again, Dagon picked up right where they had left off, as if this whole moment had never happened. The atmosphere in the courtroom had certainly changed, though, Aziraphale observed as he bit back a sigh. Behind the glass, there was quick, whispered chatter among the lesser demons. But apparently, there were still more charges needing to be read off before he could either be dunked in Holy Water and go on about his day or be killed and not worry about how he was going to explain this one to Crowley.  


…

  
Aziraphale’s strategy for explaining it to Crowley, it turned out, was saying nothing about it. As they sat together on the bench in the park after swapping back to their original bodies, he thought about rushing through the bit about temptation and lust so that _ technically _ the demon would have an idea of what had happened, should Hell contact him about it in the future. When he related the part of the story where he asked Michael for a rubber duck and a towel, Crowley’s face broke into the most radiant smile he’d seen from him in probably two hundred years, and he _laughed_. Aziraphale couldn’t find it in him to bring his mood down again by telling him about the mockery Hell had tried to make of him. He certainly didn’t want to expose himself to any awkward questions the evidence or his performance might inspire. Besides, they had a table waiting for them at the Ritz. He could always tell him later.

He didn’t.


	2. Raw Sex Appeal (And Plant Matter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides to give Aziraphale the chance to go a little faster, if he wants to. He also learns that car chases are a lot less fun than the movies make them seem, and that apparently, he'd made more of a splash in Hell than he'd realized.

The second morning after the world failed to end, Crowley woke in his own bedroom with the beginnings of a scheme in mind. The previous day, after their lunch at the Ritz, he and Aziraphale had gone back to the bookstore and celebrated by watching the angel count and re-count every single bloody book on his restored shelves. After that, they got utterly sloshed on some of the sweeter vintages Adam had gifted them with to numb the shock of everything they’d had to deal with in the past several days. His memories were fuzzy, but Crowley vaguely remembered dancing to music on the record player at one point. Not _with_ the angel, of course. Aziraphale only knew the one ridiculous dance from the nineteenth-bloody-century and while Crowley had certainly been drunk enough to have considered putting aside his pride and try doing the gavotte, he’d also been drunk enough to be completely incapable of making his legs do that and still stay upright. And of course, at one point, Crowley had gotten self-conscious about how loose he was being around the angel, afraid of pushing his friend too far too fast, and he’d sobered up and driven home in the Bentley.

In the light of a new morning that should never have existed, Crowley decided that it might be time to, if not go fast, at least take the car out of park.

Remembering the archangels’ faces as he spit Hellfire at them yesterday, he couldn’t imagine that Heaven was going to come bothering Aziraphale again any time soon. From what the angel had told him about his own hellish trial, his dip into Holy Water had been extremely public and something of a sensation among the lower demons. They’d both managed to extract promises of noninterference from their superiors before returning to Earth. For the first time in their long, long existences, Crowley and Aziraphale could do what they wanted, and what Crowley wanted was… Aziraphale. In whatever capacity the angel was willing to have him.

Once, back when Aziraphale had first opened his bookshop, Crowley had decided to congratulate him with chocolates and a bouquet of flowers. It was no secret that the angel loved sweet treats and pretty things, and that day Crowley had felt just sappy enough to lean into that instinct that told him to indulge his angel these things, even those things that carried the connotation of something a bit further than simple friendship. Of course, he’d never gotten to give him those gifts because Gabriel had shown up and tried to recall Aziraphale to Heaven, and Crowley had been forced to spend the rest of his afternoon coming up with a scheme to trick the archangel into letting him stay. By the time he got back to the shop to meet with Aziraphale, it had been swarming with humans and he had lost his nerve and banished the chocolates and flowers to Costa Rica.

With the bookshop restored, it was kind of like a second chance at an opening day. As Crowley manifested clothes for himself for the day, he searched his brain for a good chocolatier to visit and tried to think of an arrangement to get that would be beautiful without screaming “desperation” in that flower language his angel had been so taken with once.[[1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144995/chapters/47861053#note1)] Always the serpent, he wanted to leave himself an exit in case his friend’s feelings ran in a less than amorous direction. Even if that were the case, Aziraphale still loved being spoiled and unless he really laid it on too thick, Crowley hoped that these gifts wouldn’t be enough to scare the angel off.

He hesitated by the telephone, still nervous despite all his planning. He forced himself to get over it and dial the only number he ever called on his home phone.

A prim voice answered him three rings later. “We aren’t open, please call back later.”

Crowley grinned. It was his first full day of having the bookshop back and already Aziraphale was annoyed with customers. “Relax, angel. It’s me.”

Immediately, the angel’s voice brightened. “Oh, Crowley! Did you sleep well, my dear? It seems to have been rather a short rest, considering everything that’s happened. I was afraid when you left, I wouldn’t hear back from you for at least a week.”

“I’m awake, angel. I called to ask if you wanted to have dinner with me tonight.”

“Oh, Crowley! That sounds lovely. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” He said, making a mental note to work through that part of the scheme before he talked to the angel again, “Pick you up at six?”

“Of course, my dear. I will see you tonight.” Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

“It’s a date.” He said, hanging up abruptly as soon as he realized what he had said. To his credit, he only spent two minutes pacing and screaming into his fist before collecting himself and heading out of the flat.

As he climbed into the Bentley, Crowley’s mind was back on flowers. Acacia, for “beauty in retirement”, maybe. Oh, bugger. No, it also could mean “secret love.” That wouldn’t do. Rhododendron? No, none of that, he was locking that particular self-doubt back up inside his mind and just ignoring it for the time being. Apple blossoms were supposed to mean something about hope for the future… but did he really want to remind him of Eden at a time like this? Tulips? Violets and jonquil and amaranth and rose-of-Sharon and dill and—_stop_. The plan was to play it cool, figure out whatever it was that Aziraphale found to be a comfortable speed, and ignore any of his own amorous feelings beyond that level until the world ended again. What wouldn’t help with that plan is bloody _dill_.[[2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144995/chapters/47861053#note2)]

After about ten minutes of breakneck driving and about forty minutes of anxious deliberation inside that hipster florist shop, Crowley was holding a bouquet wrapped in brown paper and gold twine. Perhaps fifteen of those minutes in the florist’s had been spent just debating what to wrap the bloody things in. In the end, he’d settled on brown paper because it reminded him of the little packages he and the angel used to send to one another, and it really did make the purple of the lavender and heliotrope that much more striking in contrast. If anyone asked, the pink-haired shopkeeper’s insistence that paper was the ecologically friendly option was absolutely not a part of his reasoning. It’s just that… well, they’d spent so much time and effort trying to stop the end of the world. It would be a shame if it did it on its own just a few years later due to something as silly as cellophane wrapping for a bunch of flowers.

A few shops later, he walked back to the Bentley carrying a box of assorted chocolates, a tin of those biscuits Aziraphale liked enough to stash in his car, and a bottle of champagne. With the flowers also in hand, it had proved too much to carry without looking foolish, so Crowley picked up a matte black canvas bag from a sidewalk stand. He was physically incapable of stopping himself from grinning like a fool. _If only Satan could see me now,_ he thought, _carrying a reusable shopping bag._

Crowley went to fish the Bentley’s keys out of his pocket, then froze. His elation and excitement for the coming evening fizzled out, replaced by pure instinct telling him to either fight or flee the scene. He could not see them, but somewhere in the crowd of shoppers and tourists he was having to pass through to get to his car, he sensed the presence of another demon.

The presence felt somewhat far away. Perhaps whoever it was had not noticed him yet? If he could get inside the Bentley, he could merge into traffic and try and disappear. His hopes were shot soon after, as he felt the presence move closer to him. Whoever it was, they were following him. Without breaking stride or sparing a glance for his car, he walked straight past the Bentley as though it were a stranger’s. Crowley tried to act casual, but inside his pocket his knuckles were white where he was clutching his keys as if they would be any sort of use as a weapon against a demon.

Feeling the presence gaining on him, Crowley looked around for an out. He slipped around the other side of a group of American tourists, taking up the whole sidewalk to talk loudly amongst themselves and photograph the architecture of a McDonald’s that had been opened in a Victorian storefront, and ducked into a corner shop.

Hiding behind a wire rack of candy bars was perhaps not one of the most demonic activities Crowley had ever engaged in, but with the right mindset, it could be described as “lurking.” He just had to wait until the demon passed this shop front by, and then he could sneak out the back door past the humans and reappear back in his car. He did not recognize the presence stalking him, but that did not grant him much confidence.

The demon stopped moving, and Crowley felt their eyes on him, intense and burning. He knew that, logically, he couldn’t pretend to stare at this package of chewing gum all day, so he turned to meet their gaze. Through the glass of the store front, the squat, wide-mouthed demon was peering at him with something less like rage and more like… hunger? Curiosity? Their tiny, watery little eyes were looking him up and down like he was a puzzle to solve. Slowly, they raised an arm towards the glass. Crowley tensed, expecting a fight and feeling guilty about all the humans in the way of it. The ashen, clawed fingers inched towards a planter outside the shop window and ripped out a fist full of wilting ivy. Clumps of potting soil dropped off the torn roots and onto the creature’s grimy jacket. They did not break eye contact.

Crowley decided that, whatever that had been about, he didn’t want any part of it. He turned and walked out the emergency exit at the back of the corner shop, hoping that the sirens would scare the other demon off or that they would be too distracted by humans leaving the building to follow him. When the door closed behind him in the alley, he heard a rustle somewhere above and behind him. Spinning around, he saw the demon crouched on the roof of the corner shop, still clutching the leaves.

“I undersssssssstood that Hell knew to leave me alone.” Crowley hissed up at the demon, feeling his fangs sharpen in his mouth. The creature scurried back away from the edge of the roof, and Crowley felt the demonic presence recede as they vanished from the area.

_Well, if that’s all it took._ It would seem that Aziraphale had really put the fear of Crowley in them during the trial. He decided to walk back towards the Bentley instead of vanishing, keeping his senses alert in case they came back. The demon had seemed small and weak—an imp, maybe? Far from the worst threat he’d faced down. He kept moving, stepping out of the alleyway and leaving the shrill of the alarm behind him. He started to get comfortable again as he closed the three blocks between the corner shop and where he’d parked his car.

He unlocked the Bentley and slid into the driver’s side seat, setting the flowers and shopping bag on the passenger side. As he pulled out into the street, he thought of his angel. He should probably get over there and warn him that he’d encountered a demon on the streets of London. He glanced down at the clock in the dashboard. One p.m. He’d be incredibly early for their date… and he had been too distracted to come up with the part of the half-formed scheme that involved an actual location for the evening’s events. Driving towards Soho, it occurred to him he should probably get rid of his presents if he was going to be paying the bookshop an early visit and avoid spoiling the surprise. With a thought, he banished the bouquet and bag back to his flat.

When he was only a few blocks from the bookshop, he felt the presence again. It was very brief, gone in an instant as Crowley sped by wherever the demon had been lurking, but they hadn’t been crafty enough to avoid notice entirely. Crowley took a hard left, no signal, slipping between cars as he heard a chorus of horns behind him. What he wasn’t going to do, he thought, was lead this demon straight back to Aziraphale. He began a long, looping drive through the city, taking unexpected turns and doubling back on himself as often as he could. If this was a chase scene in a movie, he thought looking over at the bullet decals on his window, he’d have lost them by now. Bond villains usually couldn’t teleport, however, and he found his own tail harder to shake. Periodically, he would feel the demon as he barreled through a light or got stuck behind a lorry he hoped would conceal him but, in effect, just slowed him down.

He turned on the tape deck and waited for a message to come through, likely a threat or a warning of some kind, but all he heard was Queen. Whatever was happening, Hell didn’t seem like it was wanting to talk to him about it first.

Crowley looked at his cell phone on the passenger seat next to him and considered calling Aziraphale to warn him. He hesitated. This didn’t feel like an attack. He’d been alone in an alley with the creature. If they had planned to fight him, they'd had the perfect opportunity. No, this felt more like surveillance. Apparently, Hell’s promise to stay out of his way didn’t extend to keeping him out of their sight. As he swerved through traffic and passed by another of the imp’s hiding spots, he thought with a dark chuckle that his monitor seemed to want to keep him on a short leash. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to the angel, not now. He drove further away from the bookshop.

Crowley drove around London for two hours. His knuckles were white and cramping on the steering wheel, and he was getting tired of this. Theoretically, he could do this all day without rest, but his patience had much more finite limitations than his stamina. With this stupid imp following him, he couldn’t see Aziraphale, and he couldn’t even go home. It was time, he thought, to do something reckless. He slowed the Bentley down to the speed limit, keeping all of his senses peeled for the demonic presence. At last, he felt it. Now that he was no longer going at a blistering speed, he was even able to see the creature. They stood apart from the rest of the pedestrians on the sidewalk, just inside the mouth of an alleyway that was too narrow for vehicle traffic.

Well, for a normal vehicle, anyway. Crowley yanked his wheel hard and hopped the curb. Reality bent around him as a streetlamp and newspaper stand miraculously got out of his way and the walls on either side of the alley realized they would really rather not scratch the paint job on the Bentley.

The imp manifested their wings in a panic and started trying to flutter away from the classic car hurtling towards them. The Bentley screamed to a stop, the smell of burning rubber filling the alleyway. The imp chanced a glance behind and saw to their shock that the car was empty. Then, they crashed into the demon Crowley at full force as he rematerialized behind them.

“You’re not the only one who can teleport, you little creep,” Crowley snarled, grabbing the creature’s wrist to prevent another escape, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you on the ssssspot.”

The imp just yelled.

“Right, okay then. I’m going to discorporate you and you can tell Hell to never send anyone else up to watch me.”

“Hell didn’t send me to watch you!” They pleaded, trying to break away from his grasp, “They didn’t, honest!”

Crowley rolled his eyes and put his other hand around the imp’s neck. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Listen, mate, no hard feelings. I’ll try to do this quick but I need you to stop squirming.”

“I’m your replacement!” The imp choked out, “I wanted. To see. How you worked.”

Crowley sighed and relaxed his grip on the demon’s windpipe. “I guess they really did fire me, then.”

“Yes!” They said, clearly eager to say more things that will get him to let go of them, “Lord Beelzebub was clear about that. None of us were to interfere with you, and you were to get no further assignments.”

“Clearly you need to listen better. I’d say following me all afternoon counts as interference.”

“You weren’t s’posed to notice me,” They hurried to explain, feeling the fingers twitch on their throat, “It’s just—it’s just that it’s m’ first day, up on Earth, and I wanted to observe how it was done.”

“Word of advice,” Crowley said, looking at the imp with all the disdain he could muster, “Don’t burn through all your demonic miracles teleporting after a demon who wants to kill you, and don’t let me see you again. Better yet, stake out some new turf to work in. I hear Antarctica is in need of demonic interference.” He let go of their wrist and pushed them away.

The imp took a few steps back, looking like they were planning to teleport away again, but then hesitated. Their tiny, dark eyes watched him warily and, seeing that he made no move to attack, they spoke up. “I have a lot of questions.”

“Look, I know. Earth is confusing and so are human customs but I’m not bloody Google,” Crowley spat, “Find a computer and search whatever it is that you need to know.”

The imp looked at him like they had only understood about half of the words he’d said, but they pressed their luck anyway. “S’not about humans. I want to know how you did it.” The way they spoke the last part was almost reverent.

“Come again?” Crowley said, perplexed.

“Sorry, got a bit ahead of myself. Huge fan of your work,” The imp said through a mouthful of pointy teeth, “Bit with the apple? Stroke of creative genius, I always said. The others, yeah they always said you were a wanker, but I never believed ‘em. I always knew you were plotting something big, I did, and hey. Looks like I was right.”

“I have a lot of, er, plots,” Crowley said, “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“The temptation. The Great Temptation,” There was a gleam in the imp’s eye, “When I heard what you did, I knew in that moment that’s what I wanted to do with my life. I thought all my life I was gonna be stuck down there sharpening pitchforks but then Lord Beelzebub put out that hiring call and I got picked, so I figured once I got topside I should follow you and see how you did it. I think I got it figured out.”

Curiosity got the better of him. “Alright then, what’s the secret?”

“Patience. Dedication. Raw sex appeal. And this,” The imp pulled the fistful of battered ivy out of its jacket, “Plant matter.”

Crowley himself was no incubus but the idea of this squat, toothy demon trying to tempt humans into sin with a clump of dying ivy was enough to crack his touch-guy act and make him burst out laughing. “Raw sex appeal.” He repeated, a wheeze.

The little demon looked confused but kept on talking. “Yeah, the other imps laughed when I told them about it, but I’m sure you would have gotten laughed at too if you told anyone your plans before you did it. No one thought it was possible until you did it first. You made history, and I’m going to do it too. I’ve got it all planned.”

With a snap, the demon’s hands were covered in hair product and they swept their greasy bangs into something more contained. Another snap, and their clothing transformed. When he’d first run into the imp, Crowley got the distinct impression that their clothes looked like the kind of thing you’d expect to see a teenage skateboarder wear after floating belly-up in the Thames for a week. After the snap, however, they morphed into an exact replica of Crowley’s current clothes, scaled down to fit the imp’s smaller build. They even copied his snakeskin boots.

“No, absolutely not, change out of that immediately,” Crowley said in a hurry, taking a half step back in spite of himself, “That’s the single creepiest thing I have seen in a century. Absolutely not.”

The imp looked crestfallen. “Why? I have everythin’ I need. The clothes, the plant matter, I know where I can get alcohol and candy—”

“Those are my clothes. You can’t wear mine, you have to pick out your own. It’s just… wrong.” As he spoke, he felt a little twinge of unease that even this clueless imp had managed to figure out that he was picking up presents of a more… romantic nature. He hoped he could get this conversation over and done with quickly, get back to his flat, and potentially reconsider his evening plans.

“What should I wear, then?” The imp cocked their head, confused.

“What do I look like, Tan bloody France?” Crowley snapped, “Just… go out there and see what the people on the street are wearing and copy that. Look at a magazine, or a mannequin in a window, just… stop looking like a tiny me. It’s unsettling.”

The imp hesitated, then snapped again and returned to their earlier, slightly damp attire.

“I wasn’t kidding about making yourself scarce,” He threatened, “If I see you again, or if I hear a demon has been watching me, I will snap your neck. Understood?”

The imp nodded furiously, all their teeth on display like a rough approximation of a smile. Their hair was still pushed back in a ridiculous swoop. They were bouncing a bit on the balls of their feet, and it was obvious there was more they wanted to say.

“Alright. Out with it.” Crowley said, rolling his eyes.

The question came all in one breath. “Whatdiditfeellike?”

Crowley blinked. “Pardon?”

“It’s jus’ that I was at your trial and, well, I bet you didn’t see me there, I was pretty far at the back, but I could hear everything.”

Ah. So this is why the imp was really here. Aziraphale had said there had been witnesses, and he supposed he should have expected at least some of them to have had the brass ones to come up topside and try to figure out how to copycat.

“Listen. A demon’s entitled to his secrets,” Crowley said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It's over and done with. Suffice to say I’m incredibly powerful, and leave it at that.”

The imp looked stunned. They hesitated, then whispered, “I figured. If Holy Water didn’t kill you, what could, I mean? And when you did it, it didn’t… burn you? At all? What did it feel like?”

“Nope. No burns. Pretty pleasant, actually. Er.” The imp was still looking at him, eager in a way he couldn’t really put a name to. Did they not know what a bath was like? They were pretty moist for a demon, but the sour smell was enough to give him doubts that the imp had ever gotten the memo on hygiene. “Wet, I guess? I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Wet!” The demon laughed, an awful, chattery sound, “You really did it, didn’t you, you crazy bastard! I’m gonna have to call Downstairs. Some of us imps had a betting pool. If you were going to do it, if doin’ it would kill you, or if you were jus' full of shit. Looks like I won!”

The idea that there were imps betting on whether or not he’d survive his dip in Holy Water was… strange, to say the least. He supposed Hastur and Ligur’s talk of him going native must have happened behind his back more frequently than he’d thought, but it was still a daft imp who would take that bet. It was a bit insulting that, given all the legions of Hell to choose from, Beelzebub had replaced him with… this. At least he didn’t have to worry about his replacement being a terribly cunning, competent demon. And if the soggy little git had decided they wanted to bring humanity to ruin using handfuls of landscaping and their _raw bloody sex appeal_, humanity didn’t have much to worry about, either.

Crowley pushed past them and carefully opened the door to the Bentley. “Congratulations on your victory, then.”

“I should be saying that to you!” The imp chirped, “Rumor Downstairs is that you’ve even given Lord Beelzebub ideas. What you did… well, demons have been jokin’ about it for millenia, but you. You actually did it, an’ didn’t even get smote! I mean. You’re the real deal. The Serpent. The Original Tempter. If anyone could find a way to do it, it would be you. It’s like you said at the trial. It’s an art.”

“Alright, shut it. I don’t want a bloody fan club,” Crowley growled, “This will be the last time I see you, remember? This is my territory, and I will discorporate you if I see you sniffing around here again.”

“Oh, of course not! I wouldn’t try to go after what you’ve already tempted. You’ve staked your claim, loud and clear,” The imp rushed, deferential, “Besides, Hell moved quick so I’m sure Heaven’s getting busy, too. I’ve gotta get going, figure out where they’re sending your angel’s replacement. It’s a big planet, lots of places to hide.”

“Try not to get smote,” He said, climbing into the front seat of the Bentley, then added, “Word to the wise. For future temptations. If you don’t want to scare them off, you might consider tweaking your corporation. Most expect their lovers to have just the one row of teeth.” He slammed the door.

As he backed the Bentley out of the alley, he snuck glances back at the imp to make sure they weren’t going to try following him again. The first time he looked back, the demon was still watching him with those weird little eyes, their mouth pulled closed in a too-wide straight line. They looked a little like a sock puppet of a grouper. Crowley snorted, turning to look behind him again and imagining the imp trying out their first seduction on some poor human. When he turned back to check the next time, the imp was gone. He turned out onto the street and headed back towards his flat. He was several blocks away by the time it registered for him that the imp had called Aziraphale “his angel.” It left him feeling a little clammy and a bit too… seen.  


…

  
High above the street, the imp rematerialized on a rooftop and began to scan the pedestrians below. One human caught their eye, and, as their demonic senses informed them, apparently caught the eye of some of the other humans who it passed by as well. The human was moving faster than the others, keeping to the edge of the pavement and moving around the slower humans. With a snap, the imp’s clothing transformed into an exact copy of the human’s wardrobe: athletic shoes, skin-tight leggings, a pair of short-shorts, and a crop top that said “Work It.” The imp didn’t fully understand what that phrase meant, just as they didn’t understand the function of the two white metal plugs that were now sitting inside of their ear canals. However, they assumed they’d learn as they worked.

“I’m going to shag an angel,” They whispered, hand flexing around the bundle of dying ivy. The imp reached into a pocket, retrieved their phone, and dialed the number for their home office.  


…

  
Crowley was in no rush, as his arranged meeting time with Aziraphale was still several hours away, but he still made it back to his building faster than any human could have. He opened the door to his flat and strolled inside, intent on collapsing on the sofa and trying to come up with a backup plan for his dinner date that wouldn’t make Aziraphale think he was some kind of overbearing weirdo. The kind of overbearing weirdo that is so obviously smitten that an imp on their first assignment on Earth could tell he was planning for something that looked a lot like a date. He’d need to rethink his strategy. Go slower. Keep the brakes on. Not scare Aziraphale off the moment they had a chance to enjoy one another’s company for the first time in their lives. He rested his head on the wall of the elevator, considering what to do about the chocolates and flowers in his flat. Last time, he’d banished them to Costa Rica. Maybe this time, he’d try the moon.

He was barely across the threshold when he tasted burnt paper on his tongue. His mind went immediately to the bookshop, shelves roaring as they were consumed by flame. He shook his head. The flat wasn’t on fire, and he didn’t even own a bookshelf. He was fine… but the scent still hung in the room. Crowley tasted the air with his forked tongue and smelled the sharp twinge of sulfur beneath the char.

“Thought I told you I’d break your neck if I saw you again!” He called out to the flat. The living room was dark, but his slit pupils were used to seeing without light. The room appeared to be empty, and he didn’t sense the imp’s presence, or the presence of any demon, for that matter.

He stalked through the room, back towards his office, and felt his foot brush against something on the floor. Looking down, he saw an envelope. Giving it another sniff, he realized this was the source of the odor. The concrete beneath it was scorched, and the edges of the parchment were still faintly smoldering from its journey up from Hell. Crowley stared at it for a moment, waiting for it to either bite him or explode, but when it failed to do either he cautiously bent down to pick it up. He slipped a finger under the flap to break the wax seal, noting with trepidation that the black wax was impressed with Beelzebub’s official crest.

His eyes scanned the text once without comprehension, then a second time with horror. Crushing the letter in his hand, Crowley sprinted back out of his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1If asked why he had memorized flower language, Crowley would have sworn he only learned it because he likes plants, and the fact that Aziraphale found it charming was completely unrelated.  [ [return to text](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144995/chapters/47861053#return1) ]
> 
> 2A key for the reject flower ideas:
> 
>   * Acacia: "beauty in retirement, friendship" but could also be "secret love" (depending on color).
>   * Rhododendron: "danger/I am dangerous, beware".
>   * Apple blossom: "better things to come/good fortune".
>   * Tulips: could mean a lot of things, depending on color, but most of them are pretty lovey-dovey (on a scale from a declaration of love with red tulips to "there's sunshine in your smile" with yellow tulips).
>   * Violets: "faithfulness" (or "let's take a chance" if the violets are white).
>   * Jonquil: "affection returned/desire/love me".
>   * Amaranth: "unfading love." 
>   * Rose-of-Sharon: "consumed by love".
>   * Dill: "lust". 
> 
> (thank you **vaire_the_weaver** for asking for this) [ [return to text](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144995/chapters/47861053#return2) ]
> 
> Additional Note: Somewhere, on an old digital camera, there's a group photo ft. tween me taken in front of a London McDonald's that was opened in a beautiful old building that looked like something straight out of Dickens. Forgive me, for I was young and painfully American.


	3. Sorry About the Tongue Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes up hungover and sad and contemplates the painful, embarrassing, and wonderful details of the last two nights. Crowley, as usual, assumes the worst.

Aziraphale did not, as a general rule, sleep. Most nights these days passed for Aziraphale in the same pleasant fashion: seated in the angel-shaped divot in his armchair under a cozy tartan blanket, a mote of celestial light hovering above him, and so focused on the book in his hand that he would look like a statue to any outside observer, were it not for the occasional turning of a page. In those quiet nighttime moments, Aziraphale found contentment in solitude. There was no one around to ask anything of him, and he was allowed to just _be_. There were no customers with designs on his first editions, no angels checking in on him with unmasked disdain for his love of human things, and no demon draping himself on the sofa and making Aziraphale _question_—question Heaven’s rules, question his place in the world, question what exactly he was doing, falling in love with a demon. As much as he longed for Crowley’s company, sometimes solitude was… easier.

Aziraphale did not sleep, but that did not stop him from waking up in his armchair the second morning after the world did not end, an all-too human crick in his neck from the awkward angle he found himself in. He blinked against the light, stretching out his stiff legs, and heard the clink of glass against glass as the toe of his shoe knocked against a pair of wine bottles on the floor. Aziraphale did not sleep, but he could pass out, and the sharp throbbing in his skull reminded him that he had done so without sobering up.

The angel’s first night back in his bookshop after the failed Armageddon had not been spent in the typical fashion. There had been books, of course, at least at first. Adam’s careful restoration had not been without its surprises, and Aziraphale had taken the time to locate and catalog each new gift to his collection before indulging the demon on the sofa in his first of the night’s temptations: a bottle of rosé that the angel did not remember existing in his shop before the fire but that had appeared there all the same.

Aziraphale surveyed the scene in his back room, wincing as he stood. The empty bottles were stacked on every flat surface within reach of the place where he and the demon had sat, at first on the armchair and sofa, and then on the floor, drinking and talking and laughing. As Aziraphale picked them up (miracles were a bit much to attempt in the moment, considering the ache behind his eyes that could have killed a mortal), a memory came back to him from the night before. These same bottles filling up again, only to halfway, as Crowley purged the alcohol out of his body. A muttered apology he couldn’t understand. The jingle of the bell above the shop door. The roar of the Bentley’s engine in the street outside, getting further away. The bottles hadn’t remained half full for long. Aziraphale didn’t often drink alone like that, usually, but it hadn’t been the usual kind of night.

The solitude that followed Crowley’s departure was not the usual kind, either. It brought with it no contentment, no simplicity, and had left Aziraphale sitting in his usual armchair feeling uncharacteristically morose as he worked his way through the demon’s share of the wine, eventually forgoing his glass altogether. He’d felt hurt, though he knew he shouldn’t. It was just that they’d been having so much fun, giddy from the rush of pulling one over on their head offices and from finally, finally being able to _survive._

He remembered with a sad little thrill what had happened just before Crowley left. There had been music playing, some bebop Aziraphale would have been hard pressed to name even when sober, and Crowley had hauled himself off the floor to dance, yelling into the mouth of one of the bottles like it was a microphone. There’d been no polish to his movements, no rhythm, and the way his legs had moved reminded Aziraphale of the fact that the demon’s hips probably only worked because Crowley expected them to. It could not be, in any way, described as good dancing but Aziraphale found himself captivated anyway, watching his friend shimmy around the back room with the awe usually reserved for watching the dance of the northern lights.

Aziraphale had laughed, shaking his head, as Crowley had pointed a sharp finger at him, crooking it to beckon him off the floor and into the dance. He remembered vague protests coming from his own lips, about how he couldn’t possibly, he only knew the one dance and about how you couldn’t properly do a gavotte to music like this. Crowley had laughed in return, gently teasing him for living in the past, and had kept on dancing without him, occasionally leaning on the furniture for support.

The song changed, switching to something with a tempo too fast for Crowley’s inebriation and uncooperative legs. Aziraphale sat on the floor staring up at him, vaguely aware of the fact that the demon was staggering towards him. There was a muffled thump as the wine bottle was dropped onto the rug, a hissed expletive as Crowley’s bare foot collided with the leg of a side table, and a giggle as he caught himself from the fall on the arm of the chair Aziraphale was leaning on. Aziraphale stopped breathing, looking up at his friend, completely uninhibited and painfully beautiful. His mind went completely blank as Crowley sank to the floor next to him. Red hair tickled his nose as the demon sagged against him, apparently incapable of staying even a little bit upright anymore.

They stayed like that for that for a few excruciatingly wonderful moments, Aziraphale feeling perversely grateful that demons couldn’t sense love, until the reality of the situation caught up with Crowley. Aziraphale felt him stiffen against him, then stand up unsteadily. He looked up into those golden eyes for as long as he could before Crowley snapped his fingers, returning the shoes to his feet and his glasses to his face. His expression twisted as he sobered up, muttered some apology Aziraphale couldn’t process, and all but ran out of the shop.

With the amount Aziraphale drank following Crowley’s departure, the night should have been a blur. However, the angel had spent the time between the shop’s door closing and his passing out in the armchair replaying the night’s events over and over again until even his wine-soaked brain had managed to memorize them. It wasn’t so much a matter of trying to figure out what he’d done wrong as it was trying to figure out how to avoid doing it again. If there was an “again”, if he hadn’t chased Crowley out of his life permanently. Demons couldn’t sense love, but Crowley had eyes, and Aziraphale’s love had been written on his face as plainly as words in a book. For all his talk of theirs being their own side, neither of Heaven or of Hell, there are some things a demon wasn’t equipped to deal with, and the overwhelming love of an angel was one of them.

As Aziraphale deposited the wine bottles into the recycling bin in the upstairs kitchen, he cursed himself. They’d risked their lives and gained the world. They were finally free to spend time with one another, and Heaven and Hell couldn’t stop them. Even without the pretext of the Arrangement or stopping Armageddon, Crowley had decided he wanted to keep seeing Aziraphale. He’d gone with him to lunch at the Ritz, waited patiently as he could while the angel had pored over the titles in his restored shelves, and felt comfortable enough in his company to take off his sunglasses and dance. Aziraphale had gotten greedy, wanting things Crowley simply wasn’t built to give him.

Closing his eyes against the light, Aziraphale allowed himself to lean on the counter beside the stove as he waited for the kettle to boil. The sun outside was bright. Too bright. He raised a hand to tug down the shade and thought, with a weak chuckle, that sunglasses indoors would be practical at a time like this.

Demons did not seem to be very social creatures, from what he knew of them. Sure, they spent all their time packed into Hell like sardines, but it wasn't like they enjoyed it. Frankly, they all seemed to hate one another, and they certainly hated any angels they happened across. Crowley, on the other hand... he'd had no built-in reason to start spending time with Aziraphale, and a more self-preserving demon would have kept well away. He'd kept at it, though, orbiting in and out of Aziraphale's life over the course of six centuries, growing closer and closer every time they crossed paths. He wasn't trapped by their friendship. He could leave or show his displeasure at any time, but he kept coming back. Aziraphale had to assume that he enjoyed his company for some unfathomable reason.

If it had been sex the demon was looking for, that would have made sense. It would have even been welcome, once Aziraphale figured out his own feelings on the matter. It was clear, though, that Crowley felt as much lust for the angel as he did love—that is to say, none. Six thousand years and he’d never _made a move_, as the youth said. Aziraphale had been paying attention. In the beginning, it had all been about self-preservation in the presence of his long-term adversary. Keeping an eye on him, on the lookout for potential temptation. At least, that was what Aziraphale had told himself he was doing. And sure, the demon was a flirt. He was a demon. It was what he did. You couldn’t judge him for that, and you shouldn’t read too much into it, either.

It was, Aziraphale noticed as he poured himself a cup of tea with somewhat unsteady hands, very hard to think about things that were this complicated with a headache as big as the one currently making his skull vibrate. He could miracle it away, but Aziraphale always told himself that if he was foolish enough to drink so much he forgot to sober up, he should suffer through the hangover the next morning. Crowley called the attitude “self-flagellation”, but Aziraphale thought of it as personal responsibility. Wincing, he settled onto the stool behind the counter in his shop, teacup in hand, and resolved to mope.

Crowley would be back. Aziraphale had insulted him in the past, and he always came back. His slip-up last night was embarrassing, but he doubted it would be enough to make the demon leave forever. Still, this incident combined with the stress of stopping Armageddon meant that Crowley might be disposed to disappear for a while. If he had to guess, he was probably back at his flat sleeping it off. It could be a while before he heard from him again, but the bebop records were still in the back room. They offered Aziraphale a pretext to go over to Crowley’s flat and check on him in case he didn’t hear from him in a reasonable timeframe. _Here are the records you left at my place that night,_ he thought lamely, _we don’t have to talk about it—let’s never talk about it, in fact. Let’s avoid talking about it, like we do everything else._

His thoughts turned towards Crowley’s flat. It must have taken a lot for the demon to welcome him into his home. A true kindness, even though he’d never call it that. They’d sat on Crowley’s uncomfortably chic furniture, paced around the empty concrete halls, as they puzzled out Agnes Nutter’s prophecy. The swap itself happened quickly. There was a clasping of hands that thrilled Aziraphale more than it should, a simple reconfiguration of their very atoms, and it was over. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, he had seen his own face lit up with a seductive grin his body would never have worn before being possessed by a demon.

They’d spent the rest of the evening laughing together, still uneasy at the prospect of what was yet to come but taking as much enjoyment as they could with the time they had stolen in the meantime. Aziraphale had chided Crowley on his scowling, only to be mocked in turn for his beaming smiles. He paced the length of the flat for hours, learning to lean and slouch and swagger and _saunter_, all motions he’d lovingly cataloged in his mental library over the centuries, but which required a feeling of confidence Aziraphale had never managed to feel for himself under the weight of Heaven’s expectations. With Crowley’s encouragement, he found himself able to, well, _cut loose_ for the first time in sixty centuries. At one point, as he’d made a rather silly runway turn and draped himself against the back of the demon’s ridiculous throne, Crowley had cackled and catcalled at him, calling him a “_sexy devil,_” and Aziraphale made the wise decision to turn the circulation system off in Crowley’s vessel.

After that, they had switched tactics and helped Crowley practice keeping a straight face through whatever mean things Aziraphale could think up to say, his American accent occasionally slipping into giggles as he bowed his chest and pretended to be Gabriel. Aziraphale was impressed with how well Crowley had mastered his own posture, nervous habits, and manner of speech. The demon was an excellent actor. He had hoped, desperately, that he could do the same with both their lives depending on it.

_RING._

As committed as he had been to suffering through his hangover, Aziraphale’s resolve had never been that strong. As the first shrill ring from the telephone next to him faded, he set down his teacup and covered his ears. The second ring, just as loud as the first, felt like a sword to the back of his skull. There was personal responsibility, and then there was being a masochist, and Aziraphale was sure that being forced to listen to a phone this loud with a headache this bad was the kind of thing Hell used to break the souls of the damned. He snapped his fingers and felt the pain blessedly recede.

As the phone finished ringing for the third time, he picked up the receiver and answered the line with as much poise and civility as he could muster. “We aren’t open, please call back later.”

He was answered by a familiar, lazy drawl that sent a thrill up his spine. “Relax, angel. It’s me.”

“Oh, Crowley! Did you sleep well, my dear? It seems to have been rather a short rest, considering everything that’s happened,” Aziraphale kept his voice purposefully calm and light, unwilling to be the first to mention _what had happened_, “I was afraid when you left, I wouldn’t hear back from you for at least a week.”

“I’m awake, angel,” A chuckle, a pause, and then a very casual continuation, “I called to ask if you wanted to have dinner with me tonight.”

Crowley wasn’t angry with him. Crowley still wanted to spend time with him. The realization was a greater relief than banishing his hangover had been, and it lifted the pain he’d been carrying around since the demon left the shop the night before. He felt giddy. “Oh, Crowley! That sounds lovely. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. Pick you up at six?”

“Of course, my dear. I will see you tonight.” Aziraphale beamed, cradling the receiver against the side of his face like the hand of a lover—_no_, like the hand of a dear friend, a hand that he shouldn’t be holding anyway. Like one typically cradles a phone receiver, then.

“It’s a date.” After Crowley’s brief reply, the line went dead and so did Aziraphale’s brain.

To Aziraphale’s credit, it only took about five minutes to get it to restart and pull himself together. He really needed to stop reading so much into Crowley’s jokes and turns of phrase. It wasn’t healthy. Checking his pocket watch, he saw that he had six hours until Crowley would arrive (_good Lord, had he really been out until noon?_) and needed to find something to occupy his time. He supposed he could open the shop. After all, keeping customers from buying his books was certainly task that required his concentration. But first, there was a café down the street with an excellent brunch selection…

The crepes were delicious, as was the mimosa, and the conversation with the café owner was delightful as always, but Aziraphale knew he couldn’t stay there all day. After tipping generously, he took his time on the way home, turned the sign on the front door to “Open”, and waited, perched on the stool, for someone to come in and distract him from his excited clock-watching. As if by miracle, the bell above the door announced the arrival of a scruffy-looking university student to the shop. It seemed like the customer was well-versed enough in literature to have a discerning eye for the kinds of titles Aziraphale liked to stock, but something about his demeanor seemed to suggest that he was also the kind of person who dog-eared his books. Aziraphale swore a quiet oath that this young man would not leave the bookshop with a book in hand.

Watching the customer slowly browse the collection provided Aziraphale with about an hour’s solid distraction, until the angel’s concentration was broken by the sound the Bentley’s tires screaming outside on the street. Aziraphale fumbled for his pocket watch. Crowley wasn’t due for another three hours. The door was thrown open with enough force to make Aziraphale concerned about damage to the hinges. The poor bell clattered around on its cord and the human ducked behind a shelf.

Crowley himself appeared in the doorway a moment later, sprinting the distance between where the Bentley was haphazardly parked and the shop. “ANGEL!” He all but screamed, and Aziraphale felt his own heartrate accelerate as he noticed the terror written plainly on the demon’s face. When he caught sight of Aziraphale behind the counter, he ran towards him.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet, the stool shoved away behind him, looking past Crowley through the door fully expecting to see the armies of Hell amassing behind him in the street. Crowley made his way around the counter before the angel could take more than a step, almost crashing into him as he grabbed Aziraphale’s forearms so tightly his knuckles went white.

“Crowley, what happened?” Aziraphale asked, searching for any sign of injury to his friend. Movement drew his eye away, but it was only the customer taking slow, frightened steps towards the door. The young man was struck with the divine inspiration to hurry up about it and broke into a run. As he crossed the threshold, the door shut behind him and locked itself, the sign turning over to the “Closed” side. For good measure, the blinds all dropped down over the windows and the mail slot decided it wouldn’t open again for anything short of a miracle.

“Angel,” Crowley said in a hoarse whisper, “How do you feel?”

“My dear boy, I feel perfectly normal. What’s this about?”

Aziraphale was vaguely aware of the scent of sulfur and brimstone, though it was faint. The source seemed to be a piece of parchment crushed between Crowley’s bony fingers and his own arm. He didn’t have much time to think about that, because at that moment the demon reached up with his empty hand and gripped his chin. Aziraphale’s circulatory system was, unfortunately, working as expected today and he felt his face grow hot at the unexpected touch. Crowley kept a firm grip on him as he tilted his head from side to side, peering into the angel’s eyes with a desperate intensity, as if checking to see what they looked like in the light at different angles. Just as Aziraphale had begun to process _that_, Crowley opened his mouth and tasted the air between them with a flick of a long, serpentine tongue.

“_Crowley!_” Aziraphale yelped, and it was a miracle he was able to speak at all, “What are you—"

“Wingsss, angel,” Crowley hissed, letting go of him and backing up several paces, “Ssssshow me your wingssss.”

Aziraphale was flushed and more than a little disoriented, but he dutifully came out from behind the counter and positioned himself in the widest space of open floor in the cramped shop. Looking askance at the demon, he rolled his shoulders and allowed his wings to manifest. Crowley let out a low, hard-to-understand sound as he stalked closer, slipping past one of the wings to orbit around the angel. Aziraphale tensed as he felt the demon’s hand brush his feathers as he passed. It didn’t seem to be an intentional touch, but it sent Aziraphale’s head spinning anyway.

“Crowley, would you please kindly tell me what is happening?” His own voice was barely louder than a hiss.

Aziraphale smelled smoke. Crowley slipped past his other wing and circled back around, pacing in front of him and shaking his head. He seemed unwilling to look at Aziraphale. Crowley’s hand was on fire, burning the parchment he held to ash. Aziraphale noticed that although soot and embers slipped from between his fingers, it all vanished without a single piece touching the floorboards. After a few moments, he opened his fist and flexed his fingers, the flames dying and the last of the ruined paper falling away into nothingness. With it gone, the smell of sulfur began to dissipate.

When Crowley finally spoke, the words were tight and fragile. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses, but his body was trembling. “I wasss sssssent a commendation. From Below.”

“Oh.” Was all Aziraphale could say. In the past, when Crowley had been given credit for some human atrocity, he coped with alcohol. The demon pacing in front of him was painfully sober. He felt cold as he tried to imagine what could have provoked a response like this.

“I caught a demon following me.” Crowley continued, almost a growl. His eyes were on the floor as he stalked past Aziraphale.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, throwing a glance towards the door, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The demon’s voice was bitter. “I thought I had it handled on my own. I scared them off. At first, I thought it was sssurveillance from Hell, but when I confronted them,” Crowley laughed, humorless and slightly manic, “They told me they wanted _advice._”

“My dear boy, you survived a bathtub full of Holy Water. I’m sure any demon who watched the trial would want to know how you did it.”

Finally, Crowley looked him in the face. He looked stricken. “They kept on about my “Greatest Temptation”, and at the time I thought they meant Eden, but I got back to my flat and found a… a bloody _commendation_ from Beelzebub…”

Emboldened by Crowley’s touches earlier, he reached out a tentative hand to soothe his friend. Crowley was startled by the hand on his shoulder, and Aziraphale gave it a light squeeze that he hoped would be reassuring. Even with the seriousness of the situation, touching Crowley made his stomach flip in a way it had no business trying, given that it was a nonessential organ and would be switched off if it kept this up.

“Crowley, I know that whatever it is, it wasn’t your doing,” Aziraphale said, “This wouldn’t be the first time the humans came up with something worse than Hell, though I had hoped that they would have waited a little longer after the world failed to end to start that up again—”

“Wasn’t the humans,” Crowley interrupted, voice staccato, “Commendation for tempting an angel.”

Well, there it was. Bugger it all, he had just wanted a nice, relaxing night after nearly dying. Hell had to go on and complicate matters.

“You thought I Fell.” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a question. Crowley nodded, looking like he was moments away from falling apart. “I haven’t. Crowley, look at me. I haven’t Fallen.”

Crowley nodded, but he was shaking under Aziraphale’s hand. Keeping a gentle hold on his shoulder, Aziraphale folded his wings back in and steered Crowley into the back room of the shop and onto the sofa. “Let me get you something to drink. Tea? Wine…?”

“Scotch.” A snap, and a bottle and two glasses appeared on a nearby table. Aziraphale poured them both a generous portion. Crowley accepted his with unsteady hands and started to drink. Aziraphale realized with embarrassment that he was still holding the demon’s shoulder. He dropped his hand to his side and hovered nearby, uncertain of whether he should sit beside him on the sofa or give him space.

Aziraphale thought he heard Crowley mumble something into his drink, but it was too quiet for him to pick up. “What was that, my dear?”

Barely louder than the first time, he repeated, “Didn’t want you to Fall.”

_Tempting an angel._ Aziraphale sighed deeply and began to drink his own scotch. The burn did not help with the warmth he was feeling on the back of his neck and the tops of his ears. He’d dodged the awkward conversation about his testimony at the trial long enough, and now his cowardice has resulted in his friend nearly discorporating from panic. The longer the silence stretched the worse he felt.

Aziraphale fidgeted with the bottom edge of his waistcoat, feeling where the fabric had worn thin over the past century. “Crowley, we need to talk about what just happened.” His voice was careful, gentle, but Crowley still flinched.

“I’m sorry about the tongue thing!” The demon blurted, cringing into himself, “I was—I was trying to… smell. I was afraid you’d smell like b-brimtone or sssulfur, but you didn’t, you sssmelled like—you smelled like you. I thought you’d Fallen, and I wanted to check. I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry. The tongue thing was weird. I panicked, angel, I’m sssorry—”

Listening to his friend struggle to get his serpentine lisp under control, Aziraphale felt a pang of affection laced with regret. “Crowley, no. It’s not that.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to pace now, on the little threadbare rug in front of the sofa, trying to figure out a way to say what he needed to in a way that wouldn’t result in more fear or pain for his friend. “I think it rather might be my fault Hell sent you that commendation.”

Crowley’s head jerked to look up at Aziraphale. His voice was quiet and stiff with tension. “_What._”

Aziraphale sighed deeply, planted his feet on the rug in front of the sofa, and met Crowley’s gaze. At least, he hoped he did. The sunglasses made it hard to tell for certain. There was no easy way to begin, but… This was his best friend. He deserved to hear the truth. He’d deserved to hear it yesterday, before Hell’s gossip and his own anxiety had a chance to twist up the story into something cruel. Failing that, he at least deserved to hear it with Aziraphale looking him in the face.

Arms behind his back, fingers twisting the ring around his pinky, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Crowley, my dear. I’m afraid I didn’t tell you… everything that happened at the trial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my estimation is right, there should be one more chapter and an epilogue after this. 
> 
> Every single one of you who has commented, kudo'd, and bookmarked has made my day. You make me really happy to be in this fandom. <3


	4. In the Biblical Sense (Past Tense)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes clean. Crowley improvises new plans for dinner. They both end up on the floor.

As Crowley rose to his feet from the sofa, Aziraphale waited for him to speak, but even though the demon’s lips opened and closed, no sound came out.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale asked, tentative.

When he managed to speak, the words came out as a croak. “Did they hurt you?”

“What?”

Whatever had left him stunned seemed to burn away and his expression shifted from confusion to anger. “What did they do, angel?” Crowley snarled, stalking towards Aziraphale. “Did they hurt you? I swear to Satan, I’ll tear Beelzebub’s bloody wings off if they did anything to you while you were down there.”

Aziraphale held out a steadying hand. “No. No, dear boy. Nothing like that.”

“Then _what?_ Angel, how did _anything_ you did during my trial convince them to send me a _bloody commendation_ for tempting you towards Falling?”

“Please, Crowley.” He was feeling rather hot. “Let me just tell you what happened, and you can get angry after. I need to say this.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. A surrender. He sprawled back onto the couch, waving a hand to encourage Aziraphale to continue. It was another of his artful sprawls, the drape of his limbs carefully chosen to communicate indifference and cool, an effect that was somewhat ruined by how tightly he was clenching his jaw shut. He seemed intent on using his scotch glass to keep his mouth occupied.

Aziraphale took another deep breath and tried to be casual and steady, but he knew his act probably wouldn’t be any more believable than Crowley’s. “Well, you see, my dear. During your trial, I may have convinced Beelzebub to drop one of your charges.”

“You—_how?_”

“Crowley, Hell knew about our Arrangement. Heaven did too, they sent Uriel and Saldalphon and Michael to warn me off seeing you again, before I spoke to the Metatron. Dagon had pictures of us together, going back a while as far as I could tell,” Aziraphale rushed through the story, hoping to let certain parts pass without comment, “And Crowley, they all seem to think that you and I are… rather more close than we actually are. Hastur was, frankly, quite obscene about it. I couldn’t let that go unanswered!”

Crowley knocked back the last of his scotch. “Glad you set them right. I take it you explained that an angel wouldn’t sully himself with a demon like that.”

Quite suddenly, Aziraphale developed a pressing interest in the cobwebs accumulating on the ceiling in the neglected corners of the back room. “Oh, no. I told them it was a… well. A seduction. A temptation. You were trying to get me to Fall.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, his voice small. All the anger was gone.

Aziraphale looked back down, startled by the abrupt change in Crowley’s tone. He’d expected to be met with the demon’s familiar razor-sharp sarcasm. He thought he might even be laughed at outright. That fragile voice and the heartbreak on Crowley’s face, visible even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, was a shock. Looking at himself reflected back in the mirror shine of those two black lenses, Aziraphale suddenly felt about two inches tall.

Hoping to find some part of the story that would explain, that could soothe that hurt, Aziraphale spoke quickly. “I knew it was pointless, they were going to condemn you for all of the other charges—_Crowley, there were so many charges_—but Hastur was so vile about it, and I knew you, the real you, wouldn’t have sat there and be talked to like that, so I spoke up,” He paused, searching for a compliment to cheer up the demon, “And I know how good you are at temptation. I thought it would be believable that you could have tempted an angel to the point of Falling.”

Crowley looked at the rug for a long time, and when he finally spoke up, his voice was trembling. “Do you believe that I would do that to you, Aziraphale?”

“No. No!” He said at once, “Crowley, no! I lied to them. I thought I could get them to think their evidence of you in my company, all those meetings across our Arrangement, was just evidence of you doing your job. Tempting the enemy, you know, my dear. But no. I don’t think you have been trying to make me Fall.”

“I’d never, angel! Never, not to you. Please believe me. That is the last thing I want to happen to you. When I got the—” Crowley’s words came crashing to a stop, choking in his throat. He took a ragged breath, fingers worrying a worn spot on the arm of the sofa, and forced himself to continue speaking. “When I read it, I thought. I thought I’d finally done it. I thought I’d finally fucked up so bad I dragged you down with me. Please. Believe me, angel.”

“Crowley, I believe you. You aren’t dragging me down. I’m not Falling. And… And I’m not afraid of it anymore.” Aziraphale was surprised at the boldness of his words and was even more surprised to find that they were completely true. “I was, for a long time. So much of what I’ve done has been because I feared what Heaven would think about me otherwise, or what they would do to me. I’m not afraid of them anymore. I survived my own execution yesterday. It rather puts things into perspective. Besides, dear, if you truly were trying to make me Fall, I daresay you would have succeeded by now.” He said the last part before he could stop himself, but so be it. It was said, and nothing could be done about it now.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Crowley still sounded so fragile. Aziraphale sighed. No pride of his was worth hurting him like this, not anymore, not now that they were safer than they’d ever been. “Well. You see. Well, it’s been a long time, my dear boy. You… well, you tempt me on a regular basis. Lunches, second bottles of wine, shirking my heavenly duties, rare books. If that were enough to get me to Fall, I daresay I would have become a demon sometime around the Renaissance.”

“Sorry.” Crowley mumbled, looking away.

“For what?” Aziraphale said, “Tempting me into things I already wanted to do? Please, my dear boy, do not apologize for that. I like all of those things. I probably would have done them anyway, but you gave me a... helpful nudge. No harm has been done.”

As Aziraphale watched Crowley stare into his empty glass, looking faintly sick, two contrasting versions of the demon came to the forefront of his memory: the first swaggering and brash and basking in the afterglow of his own wickedness, the second unsteady and broken in the face of real evil. He remembered the endless bragging about downed phone lines and other acts that, while enough to embroil the greater London area in rage, didn’t come with a body count. He remembered looking down at him, centuries ago in Spain, close to discorporating from alcohol poisoning, another foul-smelling commendation close at hand.

Delicately, Aziraphale sat down on the sofa beside Crowley. He was very careful not to let their limbs touch, afraid of startling him, but the demon stiffened anyway.

“Besides, my dear boy. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“What for?”

“I knew you had taken credit for other cruelties in the past, but it hurt you every time. I was thoughtless.” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “I should have known better. I should have just held my tongue. You’ve shouldered more than enough blame in your time.”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. His long fingers twisted, grabbing a fistful of it and holding on for a second before dropping back down to the dark denim of his jeans.

“S’okay, angel. It’s safer that they think the worst of me. Just as long as…” His words trailed off into a deep, shuddering sigh. Aziraphale didn’t need to hear the rest of them to know what he meant.

“I know that isn’t who you are, Crowley.”

Crowley laughed, a barely audible, broken thing. He pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Aziraphale watched him closely, afraid he’d see tears, but Crowley’s cheeks were dry. He didn't let Aziraphale see his eyes, keeping them closed until he was able to slide his glasses back on. Rolling his shoulders and neck, he exhaled slowly and reached for the bottle of scotch. He seemed a little unsteady as he poured himself another glass, but to Aziraphale’s relief, he looked like he was starting to calm down.

“It’s been a strange day, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled. “When was the last time we had a day that wasn’t strange?”

“Too long. I reckon we’re due one.” He said, gesturing to Aziraphale’s own long-abandoned glass. When the angel nodded, he fetched it for him off the side table.

Their fingers brushed as he handed it over, and Aziraphale decided he needed more alcohol to deal with this. It was a risk, given the tension of this situation and how poorly last night had gone over, but staying sober sounded unbearable right about now. He finished the glass rather more quickly than he’d intended.

“I’m sorry for waiting to tell you. I should have told you as soon as we were back. You just looked so happy. I hadn’t seen you like that in… oh, in an age, Crowley. I was being selfish. You were laughing, and I wanted to keep laughing with you. I shouldn’t have waited. You deserved to know.” Rolling the empty glass between his palms, he continued. “I suppose I was also afraid you’d be uncomfortable with how I behaved while wearing your corporation.”

Crowley’s lips quirked up, almost a smile. “Other than making me do a striptease for my boss and all my coworkers, you mean?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks seared. “I—that—you’re very fussy about your clothes, Crowley. I didn’t want to ruin them.”

“I wish I’d been able to see that.” Crowley said. “You, playing the tempter? I bet you had a lot of fun with that.”

“Crowley! I was just—what are you—"

“Oh, I know you must have had to do something to sell your story to Beelzebub.” The almost-smile grew into a grin. “I remember Saturday night, back in my flat. I didn’t know you could move like that.”

“I was pretending to be you, you bastard.” Aziraphale snipped.

“If you still want to keep me laughing, angel, you could give me an encore performance.”

His blush deepened. He deserved this mockery, he supposed, but it still stung. “Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, moving to take the bottle from Crowley’s hands, “Keeping quiet about it saved me little embarrassment in the end, I’m afraid.”

Crowley held tight to the bottle of scotch, and Aziraphale gave in and looked at him. “Thanks, angel.” He said, his voice steady now. “I’ve thought a lot about… quitting my job over the years, and I always wanted to, y’know. Go out with a bang. Let ‘em know they don’t own me anymore. Never thought it was really an option, though. You helped me be able to do that.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Aziraphale kept his mouth shut and nodded. He held out his glass, looking pointedly down at the bottle. Crowley poured him another scotch and set the bottle on the floor between their feet. As Aziraphale worked on his second glass, he became aware that Crowley was getting fidgety beside him, winding himself up like he was preparing to say something difficult.

“Angel. I wanted to ask. What you said to them—that is to say… You and I. Er, us, I guess. Well… What do you want to do now, angel?”

Emotional honesty was well and good but… If Crowley was willing to give him a convenient change in subject, Aziraphale wasn’t going to pass that up. “Now, my dear, I know it’s early, but I recall you told me you had a surprise planned for this evening.”

Crowley stared at him, something shifting in his expression as he processed his words. He looked away, running a hand through his hair again. “I, uh. I don’t know about that anymore, angel. I was trying to get ready for that, but that damn—_blessed_ imp found me before I could finish.” Crowley said, fiddling with the end of his necktie. “I’m sorry, angel. I’d need more time.”

_Oh._ Aziraphale deflated. He’d been quite looking forward to whatever surprise dinner Crowley had in mind for him, and even more than that, he’d been looking forward to another evening of Crowley’s company. “That’s quite alright, my dear. We can do dinner another night.”

“Yeah, sure.” Crowley said, his voice quiet. “D’you… want me to go?”

He started to get up from the sofa. Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out and put a hand on his knee. “No!” He said, too quickly, then jerked his hand back into his own lap. “Not unless you want to leave, of course. You can leave, if you want. You’re under no obligation to stay here… but you don’t have to leave.”

Crowley had startled under his touch, but not badly enough to run, it seemed. He flopped back onto the couch. He was silent for a while, staring off into space, then turned to Aziraphale and quietly said, “We could order in, if you wanted to. That Indian place you like delivers.”  


…

  
By dusk, Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting on the floor of the back room surrounded by takeout containers. The side table was too small to use as a proper eating surface, and Aziraphale didn’t want to make Crowley uncomfortable after a day like this by inviting him up to his flat to use the table in the kitchenette. Also, by the time the food arrived, they were just tipsy enough that sitting on the floor seemed like a marvelous time. This was the stage of inebriation Aziraphale liked best, when he could do things he otherwise would have thought improper, but not so drunk that he would say things he’d actually regret. The trouble was, it was hard to feel out the line between the two, especially when one was in the moment and trying to make that judgement call while under the influence.

Crowley was draped across the rug, legs up on the sofa, sunglasses discarded on the side table. Aziraphale had his back to the armchair, knees up against his chest. They seemed to have slipped back into an easy camaraderie again. Crowley’s anxieties were seemingly banished to wherever they went when he wasn’t openly panicking. Aziraphale’s anxieties were still there but felt muffled and distant, drowned as they were by the angel’s strategic consumption of liquor.

“What I want to know is,” Crowley asked the ceiling, “Is what the bloody hell you said to Beelzebub to get them to drop that charge.”

“It’s like I said,” Aziraphale said with great effort as he dabbed at the bottom of the curry container with a bit of naan, “They said we were fraternizing, Hastur was gross about it, I told them, yeah, we were fraternizing, but it was because I was trying to get you—well, _you_ were trying to get _me_ to Fall, and Beelzebub told them to move on and list off the other reasons to dunk you—me—in Holy Water.”

“That part I understand. How’d you get ‘em to believe you?” Crowley said, shifting to try to look at the angel upside down, “How did you convince them we’d fucked?”

Aziraphale dropped the naan and felt his face sear. An eventual “What?” was all he managed to say.

“The letter. The commendation. I zzzzzzeduced you into committing the zzzzzzin of luzzzzzzt.” Crowley buzzed the last few words in a high-pitched drone. “Past tense. Congratulationzzz, we await hizzz Fall from Grazzzzze, n’all that. What did you say to Beez to make ‘em think we were fucking?”

“Well, I—goodness, Crowley,” Aziraphale sputtered, “I—I rather think they came to that conclusion on their own. All I did was provide a suitably demonic excuse.”

He felt bright, reptilian eyes watching him. He couldn’t bring himself to look back.

“Why would they think that?” Crowley, thankfully, didn’t sound like he was mocking him. He just sounded… curious.

“I—I can’t say that I know, my dear.” Aziraphale sniffed, trying to get his heartrate back under control. “Demons have filthy minds. And I can assure you, I did not suggest anything… in the _past tense_.”

Crowley dropped back onto the floor and made a variety of sounds approximating speech. Eventually, he managed to say, “What about Heaven?”

“Heaven, my dear?”

“You said,” Crowley pointed a finger up at the ceiling, “That Heaven thought we were… together, too. Sent angels to tell you off.”

“Oh, yes, that,” Aziraphale chuckled, embarrassed, “They seem to have gotten that impression, too. Uriel called you my “boyfriend with the dark glasses.” They seemed to think I was going to defect to Hell’s side for you and warned me not to expect special treatment Downstairs since the demons were mad at you.”

“Oh.” Was all he said. For a while, the only sound was Aziraphale finishing off the last of the naan. He thought they’d dropped the subject, but then Crowley spoke again, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. “I’m glad you didn’t Fall,” He said, and then, a little louder but no less gently, “You’d make a shit demon.”

“Worse than you?” Aziraphale chuckled over Crowley’s sputtered protests, “You know it’s true, Crowley. You care too much. You always try to make sure you don’t hurt people. Admit it, Crowley. You’re not a great demon, but that makes you better than any of them Downstairs.”

Crowley sat up on one elbow, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to curse at him for implying he was kind, but then he dropped his gaze and took a long drink of scotch straight from the bottle. When he finished, he said, “I take it back. You’d be the best demon. They should put you in charge of torturing. You know how to find people’s weak spots and twist the bloody knife in.”

“Was I wrong?”

“Shut up.” Crowley said, flopping back onto the floor.

Aziraphale would have been content to sit in silence with him, but even his scotch-soaked brain could pick up on the fact that Crowley was tense. He looked as he had earlier, all fidgety and tightly wound, mouth screwed up like he was trying not to talk until he figured out how to get the words to come out the right way, fingers bouncing on his leg like he was running out of time before the words came out anyway.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale prompted, trying to sound pleasantly curious rather than impatient. He ended up somewhere between the two.

“Why’d you care?” Crowley said, rolling over onto his stomach.

“Care?”

“Why’d you care what those demons thought about us? Er, I guess I mean…” He trailed off, making a vague hand gesture, “Why’d it matter to you enough to lie? You knew that no matter what you said, they were still going to try and kill you. You knew they wouldn’t be able to, not with Holy Water. So why tell them all this about me… being wily and tempting you?”

“They… they wanted it to hurt you. They wanted you to die knowing they were laughing at you. I just… I wanted to shut them up. And I…” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to hear about it later and think of our time together as something… to be ashamed of.”

Crowley pushed himself off the ground and into a somewhat upright position, legs sprawled out in front of him. “I wouldn’t be.”

“… You wouldn’t?”

“Nah,” He sighed, leaning back against the sofa and spreading his arms, “S’just pictures of lunches and goin’ to the park, right? Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “It’s… not a crime to eat lunch or go to the park.”

Crowley pointed at him enthusiastically. “Right! An’ even if it was, who gives a fuck what Hastur thinks about it, right? Who asked him? Or Uriel. Or. Or anybody. They don’t own us anymore.”

“Right.” Aziraphale said, nodding faster.

“And I mean, obviously, s’none of their bloody business, anyway. Obviously. Don’t particularly want ‘em knowing what we do with our time, but it’s not like they can do anything about it anymore.” He slapped the floor. “If we want to eat lunch, we should eat a lunch! I’m not gonna let those prats make me feel ashamed, or whatever. Not for having a good time.”

“…Right.” Aziraphale said, stopping nodding. Stopping moving altogether.

Noticing his sudden stillness, Crowley’s expression grew serious. “Angel, I… Does it bother you… for them to think that about you? Uh. Us? Hell, Heaven… anybody?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, alright then.” A pause. “Not even the bit where they thought… In th’ Biblical sense?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Don’t care what they think.”

“’Ziraphale.” Crowley said, frowning. “I’m a demon.”

_Of course. Better not ruin things again by bringing feelings into it._

“I know that.” Aziraphale sighed deeply.

“And it doesn’t… bother you? Other people thinkin’ that, well. That a demon was—oh, that _SMEGGING LITTLE BASTARD._”

His words started out so cautious, so hesitant, and they ended in what was essentially a screech as Crowley jerked forwards from where he’d been lounging against the sofa. The bottle of scotch went rolling across the rug.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. The demon was swearing under his breath, some of it in English, and only about half of it using real words instead of mangled nonsense syllables. Aziraphale had thought that demons would have little use for blushing, but it looked like his ears were starting to go red.

“—and the fucking sssscotch, too? Fuck me. _Fuck_.” He hissed, fumbling for the bottle and dabbing uselessly at the rug with his bare hands.

“_Crowley_.” He said, more firmly this time. Crowley froze, looking back up at him. Yes, he was definitely blushing. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the spilled scotch vanished from the floor. The bottle, empty except for a few dregs at the bottom now, disappeared from Crowley’s hand and reappeared on the side table.

The demon cleared his throat. “I think I know what happened.”

“Pardon?”

Crowley clapped his hands together, pressing them hard against his lips, and stared off into the middle distance. He drew up his knees, sharp elbows balancing on his thighs. It almost looked like he was praying, but that was a comparison Aziraphale would never voice. “The imp. That _bloody_ imp. That bloody little… degenerate.” He covered his face in his hands and groaned. “They asked… well, I _thought_ they asked what it felt like to touch Holy Water.”

“But?”

“But _apparently_, someone had sat in front of all my bosses and coworkers and told them I had plans,” He said, muffled, “to go shag a bloody angel.”

“…ah.” Aziraphale said, and it was his turn to go a little pink. “Sorry about that, again.”

“And the imp asked if I’d _succeeded_,” He said, much louder, as he sat back upright, “And I said _sure, mate, I’m alive, aren’t I?_” Crowley was gesturing wildly, and the scotch bottle scooted a few inches backwards on the table to avoid being smacked about again. “And then. Then they asked me _what’s it feel like._”

Embarrassed as he was, Aziraphale was just drunk enough to find this hilarious. Trying to stifle a laugh, he asked, “So what’d you tell them?”

“I said it felt wet!” He yelled, “Thought maybe they were an idiot, maybe they didn’t know what water felt like, so I said it _felt wet._”

Aziraphale couldn’t hold it back anymore. He collapsed against the armchair behind him and cackled. It was extremely undignified for a Principality of Heaven, but within the realm of possibility for a drunk bookseller sitting on the floor in the back of his shop.

Crowley kept talking, babbling over him without stopping to listen. “They said they had a bet going ‘bout whether you’d smite me for trying. Bet that’s how Beez heard we’d… thought that it was.” He coughed. “Past tense.” Finally, he seemed to notice that Aziraphale was in hysterics. He reached one long leg out and prodded Aziraphale with the toe of his shoe, just above the knee. “Oi. Stop that.” It only made the angel laugh harder.

“I’m gonna discorporate ‘em.” He said, louder, but there was no bite to it. “I’m going out, I’m gonna find that imp, and I am going to discorporate ‘em.”

“No! Don’t—don’t leave!” Aziraphale cried, barely getting his words out. Breathing wasn’t necessary for him to stay alive, but it was necessary for talking, and with how hard he was laughing, he was finding it difficult to get his lungs to cooperate. There were tears in his eyes, actual tears, and he felt the tension he’d been holding for far too long melting away.

“I’m gonna…” Crowley said, and Aziraphale realized there was laughter in his voice now, too. “I’m gonna throw them back down the escalator in pieces.” The toe of the shoe nudged him again and Aziraphale swatted at it with his hand.

Aziraphale looked over. Crowley was almost completely horizontal now, doing a very poor job of making his smile look like a glower. “Why?”

“Bein’ nasty.” He said, turning his head to look back at Aziraphale. “Tellin’ Beez.”

The angel blew out his lips. “Don’t care.”

A pause, while Crowley thought about it. “For… tonight. Spoiling things.”

“I’m having fun.”

Crowley sat up. “Yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Aziraphale answered, smiling.

“I had… plans.” Crowley said, watching him. “Can I… show you?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. Crowley snapped, but there was no friction, no sound. His fingers were still wet from the spilled scotch. He wiped his hand off on the leg of his jeans and tried again, this time with better results. A cone of brown paper materialized on the floor between them, settling into the rug with a faint crinkling sound.

“S’not much, but I wanted to. Well, you know. Bring you nice things.”

Aziraphale blinked as Crowley pushed himself off the floor and made his way towards him. The demon never actually managed to stand all the way up, instead crossing the distance between them on his elbows and knees. He picked up the brown paper package as he slithered past it over the rug, sticking his arm out towards the angel once he’d gotten close enough to reach. Aziraphale took it in both hands, uncertain, as Crowley hoisted himself up to a kneeling position.

It was a bouquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter really kicked my butt, and after I finished and moved on to editing, I realized why: it was a 10k monstrosity and would have almost doubled my wordcount for the whole fic in one go.
> 
> It is now two chapters. The previous chapter's note was a liar. This is going to be a 6 chapter fic. I hope. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading along with this! It means a lot to me and each and every one of you are wonderful. <3


	5. The Language They'd Had to Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns that Crowley knows how to speak a language he didn't know he could, and has to reevaluate what he thinks he knows about the demon. The two swap bodies for a second time.

Taking care to not crush any of the flowers with drunken clumsiness, Aziraphale pulled back the brown paper wrapped around the bouquet. It was all very purple. Long, graceful sprays of lavender, the scent sweet and subtle. Tiny blooms of heliotrope clustered together on delicate stems. The flowers were vibrant with life, clearly fresh cut, the faintest trace of demonic energy coursing through their cells to keep them from wilting. This didn’t feel like something Crowley had pulled out of the firmament on a whim. There was an artificiality to the things they created, subtle enough to be missed by any human, but Aziraphale knew how to spot these things. He could tell the difference between a cup of tea brewed by hand and one called into existence by miracle without even having to taste them. These flowers Crowley had given him were real, living things.

Although there were perhaps more pressing questions, Aziraphale started with the one that was, currently, the most coherently formed in his mind. “Crowley, did you get these from a florist?”

“How could you tell?”

“They aren’t frightened half to death.”

The demon grinned, a little sheepish. “Impulse buy. Could’ve grown ‘em, but I didn’t wanna wait that long.”

Something was nagging in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, trying its best to surface from beneath the haze of inebriation. “Why’d you get me flowers?”

“Wanted to. I was gonna bring them tonight. Part of the surprise. Celebration, y’know. The bookshop’s back. S’like a… a new opening day. Had some other stuff too, hang on.” Crowley snapped his fingers again, summoning a black canvas bag. He fished around in it, producing a bottle of champagne, an assortment of chocolates in a shiny black box, and a tin of biscuits with a tartan lid. With all the methodical slowness of the very drunk, Crowley lined them up on the floor beside them. Aziraphale watched him, the nagging something in his mind growing sharper and more defined by the second. He looked back down at the flowers.

“Why’d you get me _these_ flowers, Crowley?”

“Yeah, alright. I’spose roses are the more traditional thing, but… well, you told me not to go too fast. I wanted to pick something quieter, I guess. Didn’t want to scream it at you.”

Ah. Well. There it was. There had been a time, well over a century ago, where Aziraphale had developed a fascination with flower symbolism. It had been like a language of its own, a tool for artists and writers to weave subtle meaning into their work that often was missed on a first pass. It was also a language for lovers. Aziraphale, both a being of love and a connoisseur of literature, was instantly charmed by the concept and made it a point to memorize as much of the code as he could.

He had even once had a sprig of pear blossoms sent over to Crowley’s lodgings along with a note asking for a meeting. Aziraphale hadn’t known at the time whether he hoped the demon would understand his message or that he would dismiss it as just another of the angel’s oddities. _Lasting friendship and affection._ Crowley hadn’t acknowledged the meaning if he had known it, and soon after they had fought, and Crowley had gone off to sleep for a century, and Aziraphale found himself with little cause to think of the flower language for decades.

And now it turns out that Crowley spoke the language, too. How long had he known? Had he always known? Had he always been silently reading the symbols in paintings as he strolled through galleries beside Aziraphale? Or had he simply looked it up this morning on a whim before driving to the florists? Either way, the message spoken by the lavender and heliotrope was clear: _Devotion. Loyalty. Faithfulness._

“Crowley, m’dear. I’m too drunk.” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and forcing the alcohol out of his bloodstream and back into the bottles. He winced from the split-second headache caused by this rapid onset of sobriety, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Crowley grimacing and smacking his lips to try to rid his mouth of the taste. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that you had to sober up, too.”

“S’fine.” Crowley shrugged. “It’s not as fun when you’re the only one drunk.”

Aziraphale exhaled. With last night as an example… no, it was not.

With no alcohol in his system to slow and muffle and soothe the whirring of Aziraphale’s mind, his thoughts raced ahead of him at a speed that left him feeling dizzy and off-balance. It felt less like flying and more like he’d been falling for such a long time he’d learned to tune out the roar of wind in his ears.

Crowley had brought him flowers. Apparently, very carefully selected flowers. There were also other gifts, sweet things he knew Aziraphale would have enjoyed. He had known the angel’s favorite kind of biscuit. It wouldn’t be hard to guess, as Aziraphale often kept them on hand. He’d even been known, on occasion, to keep a box in the Bentley. But… Aziraphale had never said anything about a preference. Crowley must have learned through observation and remembered what it was Aziraphale liked.

The demon was observant. He had a good memory. He also had a frustrating habit of pretending like he was aloof, above it all, too blasted cool to care about anything. Crowley had an image, carefully crafted over thousands of years, of untouchable indifference. Aziraphale knew better, though. He knew that Crowley cared about certain things far more things than he let on, and far more deeply.

This was far from the first time he’d presented him with gifts like this. A quick glance around his shop would reveal a myriad of little baubles and trinkets the demon had given him over the years, and a fair number of the books on his shelves had gotten there in the same fashion. Even in those early days, Crowley had been quick to offer him gifts on those occasions when they crossed paths. Of course, most of those gifts had been food-based. A handful of roasted nuts he happened to have on hand. Honeyed dormouse from a street vendor in Rome, rolled in seeds and cooked on a skewer. He’d been particularly fond of presenting Aziraphale with fruit, especially new and interesting samples from new and interesting places, back in the days when it was possible for any part of Earth to be considered _new_ to either of them. It was a joke, of course, the serpent offering fruit. Whenever Aziraphale would give in and take a bite, Crowley would smirk and say he knew the angel liked sweet things.

Like chocolates and biscuits.

No other angel had ever taken an interest in what Aziraphale did, what he liked. He’d tried to share, of course, to explain the things he found so beautiful so that they could experience them, too. None of them could understand his love for food, for books, for Earth. His love of these things had been treated as foolish. He was thought of as an oddity among angels, too human for his own good, mistreating his Heavenly vessel with his consumption of gross matter and wasting his time with human stories.

But Crowley… He knew what Aziraphale liked. He encouraged him. He learned his preferences, his interests, even though he was trying so hard to look like he didn’t care. And he’d do things like this, simple and sweet gestures that belied his thick patina of cool. Things he didn’t have to do. Things that he did anyway… because Aziraphale liked them.

Sure, there’d been plenty of teasing over the years, jokes about tempting him towards gluttony and sloth and greed. But perhaps that was the language they’d had to speak, the language of enmity that let them communicate as two adversaries locked in eternal conflict, speaking of _thwarting_ and _wiling_ and _tempting_ and _resisting_ instead of what they’d really wanted to say. What, perhaps, they’d been saying anyway for a long time.

Crowley cleared his throat, pulling Aziraphale out of his revelations. “So. Uh. Angel. Did you… like them?”

Aziraphale blinked slowly, remembering he had arms and legs and a physical body that existed in physical space. He was sitting on the floor of the back room of the bookshop, holding heliotropes and lavender in his hand. A gift from Crowley. _Devotion._ Crowley was sitting close by, kneeling on the rug, leaning on one arm. Here with him, despite all that had happened. Could have happened. Might still happen. _Loyalty._ Eyes uncovered, golden and watching. Searching for any sign of discomfort in Aziraphale’s face. Excited, a little scared. Trusting. _Faithfulness._

Slowly, Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley’s hand. He heard him breathe in sharply, sucking air he didn’t need in through his teeth. He felt the fingers stiffen and prepared to back off, afraid he’d misjudged… then felt them wrap around the back of his own palm and _squeeze_.

He had never before sensed love from Crowley, and he’d always taken that to mean that the demon couldn’t feel it. But the more he thought about it, Aziraphale realized he hadn’t ever really sensed… anything from Crowley before. As an angel, he was attuned to the virtues in the same way demons were attuned to the vices, and his senses extended beyond love alone. He could feel love in the heart of a human just as easily as he could faith, or hope, or kindness.

As much as Crowley would want to deny it, Aziraphale had proof of his kindness. Centuries of proof. Little acts he hoped would go unnoticed, but that he couldn’t stop himself from performing. They were rarer in those days before the Arrangement, before he had an excuse for them, but Aziraphale knew he did them here and there when he thought he wasn’t being watched. On those rare occasions when there was something wrong that, for once, was in his power to fix. Like… welcoming Aziraphale into his home after the fire. That had been kindness, though he hadn’t sensed it in the angelic way. He just knew it.

He knew Crowley could hope. The end times were enough to prove that a thousand times over. The body swap, another example of hope, a desperate bid to survive in the face of impossible odds. A demon had walked into Heaven on a hope. Walked onto consecrated ground. Into a burning bookshop. Stood before Satan himself and stopped time, all on a hope.

Though he would never say it to the demon’s face, he knew he had faith, too. Not in the plan, Great or Ineffable or Otherwise, but in things that… mattered more.

Aziraphale had felt _none_ of that. He knew it was there, he had seen it with his own eyes, but he couldn’t _sense_ it like he could with humans. If Crowley’s heart could contain faith and hope and kindness… What else could it contain? What else had Aziraphale ignored simply because he thought it was impossible for it to exist?

As an angel, Aziraphale was built for obedience and quiet acceptance of all he was told. It had taken sixty centuries and the narrowly averted end of the world to shake off what he’d been taught from the very beginning and to learn to make his own choices. Like so many of the other lies Heaven had told him, the idea that demons could not love—that _Crowley_ could not love—had been swallowed down like the sweet poison it was. Aziraphale couldn’t question it, because to question a lie as big as that one was to question Heaven itself, and until he saw the proof with his own eyes, he couldn’t believe they were wrong. Like so many of the other lies, once he finally saw through it, he couldn’t believe how ridiculous it was. Of _course_ Crowley could love!

He didn’t know _why_ he couldn’t sense it, but he knew it was there. Perhaps it was a quirk of occult construction, a way for demons to shield themselves from the notice of angels. It could be a was a way to protect themselves, hiding any latent goodness from one another, lest it be torn out. Or… Maybe their occult and ethereal senses simply didn’t work on one another. After all, Aziraphale’s purpose on Earth was to guide humans, not demons.

_Perhaps_, he thought, palms going a little sweaty, _that explains a few_ other _things_. Angels sensed the virtues, demons sensed the vices. If Aziraphale couldn’t sense Crowley’s love… well. He supposed that, however this business worked, he should be grateful that Crowley had seemingly never sensed Aziraphale’s lust.

Another gentle squeeze of his hand pulled Aziraphale from his thoughts. Crowley was still watching him, unblinking and tense, fingers of his free hand silently tapping the rug. His lips were parted like he’d tried to say something, and with how much attention Aziraphale had been paying to his surroundings, perhaps he had. Who knows how long he’d sat there like a tit, keeping him waiting?

Aziraphale pulled his legs underneath him, shifting to kneel beside Crowley and close the distance between them. The bouquet slid from his lap and onto the floor with a crinkle of paper. Watching Crowley’s eyes for any sign of hesitation, he lifted the demon’s hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss into his palm.

Crowley was not breathing but the pulse in his wrist beneath Aziraphale’s hand was racing. Other than that fluttering, involuntary motion, he was utterly still, as though he was a statue, sculpted from marble under the hands of a master. He had been, Aziraphale supposed. The demon had served as muse and model to more than a few sculptors throughout history. It was true in a more literal sense, too. He had been formed by Her hand, and in this moment, he looked like a brand-new angel waiting for Her to breathe life into him.

Aziraphale slid Crowley’s hand down until his fingers rested against his lips. He kissed the fingertips, holding them there while he took a steadying breath.

“Crowley, were you trying to tell me you love me?”

A long, sputtering exhale ended in a strange sound that might have been trying to be a word. Crowley closed his mouth, looked away… looked back, and said, “That obvious?”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Yes, I think. But I hadn’t been paying attention. My dear boy, I’ve been so wrong about so many things for so long. Forgive me for doubting you.”

“Course. Yeah, sure. Alright.” Crowley said, dropping his gaze and shrugging. “M’a demon. You’re supposed to doubt me. You should.” He looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin, or else teleport out of the bookshop.

Cradling his hand against his chest, Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s temple. “I don’t believe that. And I’m not interested in doing what I’m supposed to anymore.” He whispered, cupping his other hand to his cheek. Then, before this spark of courage could burn out, Aziraphale put his lips against the demon’s, breathed, “I love you, too,” and kissed him.

It only took the space of a heartbeat before Crowley was kissing him back. He felt the hand on his chest splay out, fingers searching, then close around the fabric of his waistcoat to bring him in closer. Crowley’s other hand snaked around behind him, feeling out his back, his neck, his hair. Neither of them had to breathe, and perhaps that was a good thing, as they had a lot of missed time to make up for.  


…

  
In time, the bouquet of lavender and heliotrope would find itself upright in a vase of water on the front counter of the bookshop, brown paper and gold twine folded and tucked away into a drawer in a moment of sentimentality. Even cut from their roots, they would never wilt or fade, and it didn’t any screaming to make them vibrant and healthy. When the flowers met the other plants, the ones grown by the angel’s husband that were brought into the shop and the flat above it one by one, they would do their best to teach them how to still the trembling of their leaves and learn to drink from the love that settled on every surface in the home like dew. The flowers would exist in this shop as long as it remained open and would be brought along to a cottage by the seashore like a beloved pet the day the shop’s owner retired.

While that would be the eventual fate of the bouquet, in the meantime it was lying forgotten on the floor of the bookstore’s back room. It would remain there for a day and a half before being accidentally kicked under the armchair when the angel and the demon remembered their corporations could do more than kiss and tripped over the bouquet in their haste to make it to the dusty bedroom above the shop.  


…

  
It was early Thursday morning, the fifth day after the world didn’t end, and the sun had not yet risen. As he did most nights, Aziraphale was reading. However, unlike most nights, he was not in his armchair in the back room of his shop, and he was not alone. The mote of celestial light that floated above his head was dimmer than it usually was, just bright enough to illuminate the pages without disturbing the demon sleeping beside him. Aziraphale glanced away from his book to look at Crowley beside him, a tangle of bony limbs sprawled out on black silk sheets. His breathing was slow and deep, all tension drained away from his body that was normally wound up tight as a spring. He looked more relaxed like this than he ever did when awake, and Aziraphale could see now why he was so attached to this particular human pastime.

Crowley had been right, of course. The bed in his flat was much better suited for this kind of thing than the one above the shop. _It doesn’t look like it was stolen from a museum of Restoration-era furniture, for starters,_ Aziraphale remembered him saying, _and it doesn’t smell like mothballs._ As harsh and empty as Crowley’s flat was, Aziraphale had to admit that the slothful creature had a wonderfully comfortable bed.

There were no windows in Crowley’s bedroom, so Aziraphale couldn’t hear the gentle thrum of traffic in the streets outside. Other than the soft sound of Crowley’s breathing, the night was almost silent. That’s why, when that silence was broken by a voice calling from the next room, Aziraphale all but jumped out of his own skin.

Well. That was one of the reasons why he jumped. The other more pressing reason was that he recognized the voice.

“Demon Crowley, show yourzzzzelf.”

The voice wasn’t loud enough to have woken Crowley up. Aziraphale snapped his fingers as quietly as he could, and the mote of celestial light faded out. He shifted his weight carefully, grateful that Crowley’s mattress was springless and silent, and knelt beside his partner. Holding a finger to his own lips in anticipation, he pressed a hand over Crowley’s mouth. Reptilian eyes opened, blazing bright in the darkness, and Crowley stilled his thrashing when he realized Aziraphale was gesturing frantically for him to keep quiet. In response to his panicked and confused expression, Aziraphale jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom door. With his celestial reading lamp extinguished, they could now see flickers of light coming from under the door—cooler in color than firelight but changing in brightness and intensity just as quickly.

The voice droned out again. “This izzzz important.”

“_What is Beelzebub doing here_?” Aziraphale mouthed, glancing around the room for anything he could use as a weapon. The only thing he could see to use was his own book. The minimalist bastard didn’t even have a lamp in the room, for G—Someone’s sake.

Crowley’s head was turned to the door, listening intently. After a moment shook his head. “_Television._” He mouthed back, tapping his ear. Sure enough, Aziraphale could hear faint music playing in the other room. It sounded like the soundtrack to an old movie.

“Crowley, I know you’re there,” Beelebub called out, impatient, “I can see your clothezzzzz all over the floor.”

Even in the low light, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s face burn. He covered his eyes with his arms, looking like he wished he would spontaneously discorporate, and yelled in the vague direction of the door. “To what do I owe the displeasure of your call, Lord Beelzebub?”

“It izzzzz about your temptation, Crowley. I have questionzzzzzz.”

The sounds Crowley was making were completely incomprehensible, as well as barely audible. The poor demon looked like he was malfunctioning, and definitely not in any fit state to have this kind of conversation with his supervisor. Former supervisor. Anyone. Fortunately, Aziraphale had practice at this sort of thing.

He laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “_Swap with me._” He breathed.

The arms covering Crowley’s face parted and yellow eyes stared out from between them, wide with alarm. “_What_?” He hissed.

Aziraphale clasped one of Crowley’s hands between both of his own. “_Swap with me_.” He repeated, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. Crowley hesitated when he first felt the change coming, but his trust for Aziraphale outweighed his fear. Their matter shifted and reconfigured, pieces of himself brushing against pieces of Crowley as they flowed into one another’s vessels. It was over in a moment and Aziraphale found himself lying on his back, looking up at his own shocked face. It was a pleasant surprise to discover how well-suited Crowley’s eyes were to the darkness compared to his own. The demon was full of surprises.

“_Stay here_.” He whispered, smiling, and gave a reassuring touch to Crowley’s borrowed cheek. Aziraphale slipped out of bed and into the pair of discarded boxer shorts left behind hours ago. With a quick glance over his shoulder towards Crowley, still kneeling on the bed in shock, he pushed the door open and sauntered out into the living room.

The television was the only light in the room, pale and harsh against the concrete floor. Beelzebub stared out at him in black and white, perched on the edge of a desk in a smoky room. Stripes of light spilled across their face from between the blinds covering the window beside them. It seems that this film had been some kind of hardboiled detective film before the demonic intrusion. Aziraphale managed to stifle a chuckle as he noticed that their feet did not come close to reaching the floor.

“Are you planning to be undrezzzzed every time we speak, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked, rolling their eyes.

“Didn’t think we were going to be speaking much these days,” Aziraphale answered, shrugging, “I thought you lot were going to be leaving me alone.”

“Azzz promised, this izzz not a call to give you a new assignment. Consider thizzz more of a…” The Prince of Hell smoothed out their pant legs. “A social call.”

Arching an eyebrow, Aziraphale said, “What was so pressing that you needed to call at three in the morning?”

A ping, sharp and clear, came from the television set. Beelzebub shifted their weight slightly, moving to rest their hand on their upper thigh, but they did not otherwise indicate that they’d heard the sound. “You rezzzzieved a commendation. Hell needzzzz information.”

Aziraphale leaned on the back of Crowley’s throne chair. True to what Beelzebub had said, the room was littered with discarded clothing. He picked up his own bowtie from the armrest and twisted it around his thumb. “What do you need to know, Beez?”

He saw their lip twitch up into a snarl at the nickname, but they did not address it. “It seemzz that my sourcezzzz were correct. Your seduction wazzz… succezzzful.”

“Obviously.”

“And contact with the angel in this manner did not… dezzzztroy you?” They asked, clearly looking over his body for any signs of visible damage.

“Not in any way I minded.” Aziraphale said. Very faintly, he heard a choking sound from the direction of the bedroom.

“The Principality Azzzziraphale has not Fallen, despite your temptation.”

“Seems the angel’s made of tougher stuff than he looks. But you know what they say,” He answered, grinning, “Ninth time’s the charm.”

Another distressed noise from the bedroom. Aziraphale grinned as he glanced back towards the door, utterly shameless. He’d catch Hell for this from Crowley later. With any luck.

A second ping came from the television. Aziraphale turned in time to see Beelzebub fish their phone from their pocket, and after a beat, they were typing out a message. Their eyes did not leave the screen as they spoke. “Fazzzinating. I will have Dagon update the filezzzz.” The tone of their voice was flat and disinterested, but their thumbs were moving with urgency. A pause, another ping, and more typing. Aziraphale waited for them to get to the point of this call, but they seemed engrossed in the phone.

His attention was drawn away as he heard his own voice call out from the bedroom. “Crowley, darling. Come back to bed!” Aziraphale pursed his lips. He did _not_ sound that whiney.

“Is there anything else, Lord Beelzebub? ‘Cause if not, I was right in the middle of something.” Aziraphale drawled, raising a hand to snap and turn the television set off, but when he looked back, he saw that Beelzebub was already off the desk and walking out of frame.

“Dizzzzgusting. Carry on.” They said, not looking up from their phone, and disappeared. In their absence, the movie set remained empty and the soundtrack played on. Aziraphale snapped, plunging the room back into darkness.

He heard bare footsteps on the concrete and turned to see Crowley appear in the doorway behind him, leaning on the door frame. He was wearing Aziraphale’s corporation but was making no effort to act like him, slouching like a delinquent and twisting his lips into a lopsided smile. “Angel,” He said, the pet name sounding strange to Aziraphale when said in his own voice, “What the Hell was that about?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, walking back to him and taking his hand, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lips touching the microphone:_ Aziraphale deserves to be as bitchy, confident, and hedonistic as his angelic little heart desires. 
> 
> We're almost at the end now, friends! All that remains is a short(?) epilogue to follow up on what happens to that imp from chapter 2, but that's optional to read for the main story. School has started so it might take a bit to get up, but who knows. I might get possessed and write it all tomorrow. 
> 
> I told myself this was going to be a short fic, but like I always do, I lied to myself. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this and watched me project all my issues super hard on to fictional angels and demons. As it turns out, writing fic is as healing as reading it. Maybe I'll do this again. ^w^


	6. Epilogue: Armistice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the breathing space before the Big One, Heaven and Hell find a way to work together for mutual gain. Their newest field agents meet up and, among other things, eat Fruit by the Foot incorrectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up: The focus of the epilogue is more about Heaven and Hell post not-Apocalypse rather than Aziraphale and Crowley or their relationship. There is discussion of them (as well as of Beez and Gabriel, and Beez/Gabriel...) but the husbands don't actually make an appearance here. If that's not what you're looking for, the epilogue is optional reading for the fic as a whole.

It was Saturday night, a week since the world was supposed to end. The angel Rehael sat at the top of the Eiffel tower, watching the lights twinkling beneath them like stars. _Not exactly like stars,_ they thought. No human invention could rival the beauty of Her creations. Still, though. The educational pamphlets had said that Paris was considered to be incredibly beautiful by human standards, and Rehael knew now that the mortals had been right. They had seen glimpses of it, of course, but only in the occasional black-and-white photographs that crossed their desk when they needed to put together a file for their higher-ups. Seeing it like this was worth the trip downstairs alone.

Being cold was another of Earth’s surprises, Rehael realized, as wind buffeted around them at the top of the tower. They were used to flying, so the wind itself wasn’t a novelty, but it had never before raised goose pimples and caused their teeth to chatter like it did when they wore this humanoid form. Rehael could choose not to feel it, of course. Or anything. Even their heartbeat was optional. Still, there was something nice about feeling. Rehael rubbed their hands together, delighting in the feeling of warmth and friction. With the aid of a small miracle, heat bloomed out from their palms and soaked into their stiff fingers. Yes, Rehael decided. Being warm felt better when one had been cold before.

New experiences, in and of themselves, were also a novelty to Rehael. Every other week of the angel’s long, long life had been functionally identical and identically trivial. Not that they could complain about it, of course, but even in those last, tense days before Armageddon, there had been no shortage of busy work. In fact, it sometimes seemed that with their attentions diverted by the coming conflict, the higher-ups had more need for Rehael’s services than ever before. There was always something to fetch, a message to relay, a form to file. This was what it felt like to be useful, Rehael supposed. They should be grateful for the opportunity, they supposed. As much as they would deny it, though, it had been exhausting. Between the endless errands and regular combat drills, Rehael hadn’t had a moment to sit still in what felt like eternity. They relished the chance to do so now, especially with the addition of physical lungs that could breathe. _Exhaling._ The humans had truly been on to something with that one.

It wasn’t like Rehael had been dreading the end times. True, they hadn’t had much interest in running anyone through with a spear, but that was the done thing, wasn’t it? And there was a silver lining to the whole mess: Rehael had never been given clearance to visit Earth, and the final battle would finally give them their chance. True, it would be reduced to rubble from nuclear war and burning in a haze of toxic radiation by the time they got down there, but Rehael thought of the skeletons of other great works of human achievement they’d seen in the photographs—the ashy graveyard of Pompeii, the empty cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde, the rosy solitude of Petra—and knew that even the ruins the humans left behind would be worth seeing.

The fact that those places had been even more stunning when brimming with life was pointless to consider, at that point. Unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done.

Then, very shortly before the whole planet was to be roasted to a crisp, Rehael had been pulled out of combat drills by the Archangel Michael herself.

“I need you to gather some records for me,” The archangel had said, voice low as she guided them into the hallway outside the training hall, “Speak of this to no one. It is of vital importance to the war.”

Normally, Rehael enjoyed a good detour to the Earth Observation Office. They couldn’t complain about this job, either, not when it was so important. It was just that the assignment hadn’t been very interesting work, with no breathtaking vistas or marvels of human architectural achievement to break up the monotony of photographs of cafes and concert halls. Parks were pretty enough, Rehael supposed, but if one was going to thwart one’s fiendish adversary there were more visually appealing places to do it. Rehael didn’t have a fiendish adversary, though, and they supposed that meant they didn’t get an opinion. Their job was simply to gather the photographs, and they were pleased to be rewarded with a faint, tight smile from Michael after slipping the golden-edged file folder to her in another deserted corridor.

The day of Armageddon itself had been a restless one, with no busy work to distract Rehael and their comrades from the rising hum of anticipation and anxiety. When a furious Archangel Gabriel materialized in front of them, bearing the incomprehensible news that _there wasn’t going to be an Armageddon so get back to work,_ all of Heaven was plunged into chaos and the weirdest week of Rehael’s long life began.

That first day, everyone was trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong. At least, that had been the case up until lunch time—or, what would be lunch time if the angels got meal breaks. Rehael had been on their way out of the elevator with a stack of files for Sandalphon when a compact grey shape pushed past them with such haste it almost seemed like it was being chased. After recovering from being almost knocked off their hoverboard, Rehael began to apologize for the collision, but the language coming from the newcomer gave them pause. It took a moment—after all, it had been millennia since they’d seen one—but they soon realized that the figure in the elevator with them, urgently mashing the “basement” button, was a pointy haired demon who smelled very strongly of smoke. Wrong floor, the angel supposed. Easy mistake.

“Can I… help you?” Rehael asked over the frantic scrabbling and muttered profanities.

“Get out of my fucking way.” The demon snapped, eyes wide and panicked. Not one to argue with that, Rehael hover-boarded out of the elevator before the door could close on them.

Sandalphon was not in his office. Rehael left the files on his desk and checked next door. Uriel, too, was gone. All of the archangel’s offices were empty. There was no one around they could tell about this. The whole floor seemed to be deserted. Rehael thought they heard voices in the conference room—it wouldn’t do to interrupt, would it? But… there had been a _demon_. A demon _here_, on one of the highest floors in Heaven. Surely, they would want to know about that.

As Rehael came to the decision to, just this once, take some initiative and open the conference room door, a quiet chime came from the elevator. Rehael turned, half afraid the demon would be back… but the expression on Michael’s face as she passed them was more frightening than any demon could have been. There was no reason for Michael to look like that. It was all wrong on her. This was not the face of an avenging angel. This was _fear_. Michael stalked past, thankfully ignoring Rehael, and disappeared into the conference room. Rehael made the wise decision to disappear back downstairs and find a way to look busy.

After that came the whispered suggestions. _Try not to touch too many surfaces in the elevator, something dripped in there,_ the others would say lightly, like it was an accident to avoid and not the weirdest happening they’d ever seen. _Maybe it’s better to just take the stairs? You never know when the meeting will be over, and you don’t want to get stuck riding with that lot._ You really didn’t, especially not with your wings out. There are some places you just don’t want to get a maggot dropped on you—not that there were places you would want maggots on you, Rehael supposed… unless you were the maggot guy. _Did the maggot guy like having maggots_? Rehael hoped so, otherwise that would be very uncomfortable for him. _And how did the frog factor in_? These questions and more were the kind of thing Rehael did _not_ ask, and they took the stairs.

None of the other angels came near the meeting, but it was impossible to ignore the infernal presence that had taken up residence in the conference room on the top floor. This was in part because Beelzebub’s droning voice tended to carry, especially when they were trying to shout over Gabriel. The whole office held its breath (metaphorically, of course, as it was a faux pas to be _too_ human while in Heaven) until the delegation of demons finally left.

The memo that followed their departure was brief and blunt: Heaven and Hell had agreed to a ceasefire. This wasn’t the end of the conflict, of course. They were still enemies, and to think of them as being on the same side would be foolish. Everyone involved knew that this was only intended to be temporary, that after this business with Earth was sorted they would get to tear each other’s throats out as they’d been itching to do since the beginning, but on the timescale of immortal lives a term like “temporary” was open-ended. In the meantime, though, a mutual interest had been discovered and there was to be cooperation between their offices as they moved towards the next phase of the Plan. The Armistice had been signed by both the Archangels and the Dark Council, and the memo promised swift retribution for anyone—angel or demon—who interfered with the terms as they’d been decided.

Apparently, the Armistice also came with a provision for sharing of resources and personnel. Rehael discovered the latter aspect when they were called to the Research and Development office to take drink orders (scurrying around Heaven with cups of hot ambrosia in hand was one of Rehael’s most common errands to run, but at least it was one interruption that the other angels tended to greet without irritation). They felt the newcomer’s presence before they reached the door. It was stronger by far than what they’d felt from the demon in the elevator, a feeling of unease that clung to them, cold and almost sticky, as it seeped into the hallway like a fog. The rest of the other researchers stayed clustered together on the other side of the lab, and the demon was smiling like she found that hilarious. She was hard to look at, with far too many arms and eyes that glittered under the fluorescents, and while the other angels in the department took their ambrosia hot, she asked for hers iced and drizzled with something called “caramel.” Rehael almost felt sorry for Earth in that moment, for whatever she had been called here to build must be truly a horror. Almost sorry, but not quite. You couldn’t be sorry about the Plan, of course.

When they returned with the cups, Rehael noticed that one of the usual faces in Research and Development was missing. They finished the remainder of the day’s errands with frantic efficiency, because although they would do anything asked of them to help further the Plan, Rehael also wanted to avoid a transfer Downstairs at all costs.

Thursday morning, five days after the world failed to end, Gabriel was called away on urgent business with one of the Princes of Hell and Michael took over supervision of Heaven’s day-to-day operations. She was a brutal taskmaster on the best of days, and lately, she’d been in a real snit. It didn’t help that there was still very little _real_ work to be done, and even angelic patience began to chafe under the onslaught of a million useless tasks intended to keep them busy while the higher ups struggled to unsnarl the last of the chaos left in the wake of the War-that-Wasn’t.

Gabriel returned Saturday morning, a spring in his step, and called an assembly. A position was open, to be filled immediately. Field work on Earth. Heaven needed a new agent to inspire faith and thwart wickedness amongst the mortals. Rehael did not volunteer, at least not at first. They wanted to, of course, but this was not a job for a glorified intern. It would be presumptuous to ask.

Apparently, everyone else had a similar idea, as no one raised their hand. There was a tiny, muffled part of Rehael’s mind that told them that if no one was volunteering, this was perhaps not a position that one would want to be in, but as the silence dragged on, they began to feel uncharacteristically bold. Gabriel noticed their hand, timid as it was, and pointed them out of the crowd. He thanked the rest of the Host for their time and motioned for Rehael to follow him.

Rehael had, of course, been in Gabriel’s office many times before that day. Not for anything as serious as this, no, but they were a frequent visitor there anyway, and they always left quickly, as soon as Gabriel had his piping hot Styrofoam cup of ambrosia (decaf) in hand. That was why, on this visit to his office, Rehael immediately noticed something was out of place.

Like the rest of Heaven, Gabriel’s office was stark, white, and cavernous. Like the rest of Heaven, it never changed, and there was no room for clutter or the superfluous. One chair, white. One desk, white. On the desk, a single sheet of paper and a single pen (both white, both seemingly never moved or even touched). A Newton’s cradle (white, always clicking, always echoing).

The potted plant was a new addition. A squat little clay pot glazed in black. Split leaves, vibrant with chlorophyll on the outside but painted with a garish splash of red in the middle, reaching up towards the sky like hungry mouths. _Dionaea muscipula_. Rehael wondered if the poor thing would starve in here. The idea of a fly finding its way into Gabriel’s surgically clean office was laughable.

The briefing was incredibly short and uncomfortably cheerful. Rehael was told to read over pamphlets describing the major hubs of civilization on the planet, pick a city, and wait there for their first assignment. Gabriel all but pushed the informational packet into their hands and shooed them out of his office as he took a call on his cell phone.

“Hello, Beez—elzebub.” Gabriel coughed mid word, then frowned. It seemed put on, and a moment later it was replaced by one of his radiant smiles. “No, I have a minute.” He waved a hand in Rehael’s general direction and the door shut between them.

In the hallway outside Gabriel’s office, Rehael read through the stack of pamphlets with zeal and tried very hard not to hear anything being said on the phone in the room behind them. True to what the archangel had said, there was a pamphlet on every major city in the world. Well, almost every major city. London wasn’t in the stack. Neither was anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Perhaps Rehael would have stopped to ponder that, but they had gotten distracted by a glossy photograph of a skyline at night and a tower… By the time Gabriel emerged to take them to the Corporeal Vessels department, they’d made their choice of first destination.

Rehael’s assigned body, tall and bald with deep brown skin, was not new. They’d had it since there were bodies to have. The instruction manual was new, though, as were all of the odd little things it could do once Rehael realized they could start fiddling with the settings. Breathing seemed like a lot to keep track of, but they’d been assured they’d get used to it. Pumping blood tickled a bit. Rehael was a little apprehensive about the idea of having a pouch full of acid sitting in their torso, but humans were squishier than angels and they seemed to manage alright. Technically, the body didn’t need to do any of those things to function, but Rehael decided that they wanted to experience Earth for the first time as much as they could like a human would, and so quietly switched all their vessel’s settings to “on” for its maiden voyage.

And so Rehael had spent their first morning on Earth, staying out of the way of the humans, taking in the sights, and trying to let blinking become a reaction instead of a conscious action every time. There had been quite a few surprises about the human experience, but so far, the one Rehael had liked the least so far was realizing was how badly it hurt to have a bright light suddenly shone into their eyes.

As a creature of Heaven, Rehael had lived all of their life up to this point in bright, holy light, but it was darker here up above the Paris skyline, even with the electric glow of the tower. The angel’s humanoid eyes had adjusted to the dimming sunlight so slowly they hadn’t realized it was happening, distracted as they’d been by their first sunset. The light shining in their eyes now was distinctly _not_ holy light, and Rehael scowled and shut their eyelids against the harsh red gleam. Their pupils could contract involuntarily as well as expand, it seemed, and it happened a lot faster like this than it had with the sunset. _Ow._

The beam of light moved away from their face, though they thought they felt it prickling along the skin of their neck for a moment before the sensation vanished altogether. Cautious, Rehael squinted down at their body. The light was still there, moving in strange little arcs across the pearl-gray fabric of their suit jacket. It was a curious thing, this light, the bright red pinprick hovering around them. It left a trail behind it, faint in the gleam of the tower’s lights, but Rehael’s eyes were sharp enough to follow the line down to street level.

The light crept over to their outstretched wing and Rehael felt their feathers puff up on instinct. _This isn’t right_, they thought, _the humans aren’t supposed to be able to notice me up here._ Could it be an accident? Maybe… some light from an automated machine that had fallen on them by chance? _No, definitely not_, they thought as the warm red spot passed over their eyes a second time (_ouch_) and then began to flicker off and on. This was clearly intentional. There could be no doubt that someone down there could see them. Someone was… messing with them. And whoever it was clearly wasn’t a human.

Still hidden from mortal eyes, Rehael rose from their perch and glided down to the platform. Tucking their wings in, they slipped into the elevator unnoticed by the chattering tourists marveling at the view of the Paris skyline. At that point, it was only a matter of following the trail of red light (and the trail of irritated humans that got caught in the path of the beam), and soon Rehael was able to locate the source of the disturbance.

All their training told them to be wary of demons, but it was hard to be afraid of the compact little creature perched on top of a recycling bin clicking a pen light and grinning like a fool. With a wave of their hand, Rehael took the batteries out of the contraption. The grin faded as the demon realized the light wasn’t going to click on no matter how fast they pushed the buttons.

Rehael had seen more of demons in the last week than they ever thought they would, and although they were not by any means an expert, they got the distinct feeling that the one sitting before them was one of the weaker ones. _An imp, maybe? Yes, probably an imp._ Part of it was simply a size issue, and while Rehael knew that wasn’t exactly fair, especially given the stature of the vessel they inhabited, it was difficult to be intimidated by an imp that was two full feet shorter than they were. The hair was also a bit disarming, so grimy it could have been any color and held upright by a great deal of product in a rough approximation of a human hairstyle. There was something amphibian about the look of them, or maybe vaguely fishlike, that lingered about that slightly too-wide mouth and those too-small, watery eyes. The demon’s human disguise wasn’t perfect, but the crop top and shorts were garish enough to draw attention away from things mortals might otherwise think of as supernatural features, like the sharp teeth and faint smell of sulfur.

“You’re no fun.” The demon pouted, dropping the pen light on the ground behind them.

“I thought that the Armistice,” Rehael snipped, “Meant that there were to be no acts of aggression between our sides.”

“_Acts of aggression_?” They snorted, “S’not a bloody weapon, you feathery git.”

“You shone that thing in my eyes. It hurt.”

“Got your attention, though, didn’t it?”

“… It did.”

“That’s what they’re for, y’know. Laser pointers, they call ‘em,” The imp said, laughing, “An’ you’d think they were one of ours, but the humans beat us to it. I’ll have to get another one to take Downstairs next time. Dagon’ll have a field day with those in Torments. Hear they make presentations a lot more annoying, too. And cats! Those furry bastards love these things.”

Rehael was already walking away before the imp had stopped talking. There was a grunt and a clatter, and then the chattering resumed, slightly breathless this time, as the imp struggled to keep up with the angel’s long legs. Patience was a virtue, but Rehael felt the limit of theirs rapidly approaching. A story about enticing a stray cat to chase the little red dot up the legs of a man carrying an armload of groceries faded into a second story about shining the light in rude ways onto statues in the Musée d'Orsay and passing the blame onto a group of visiting school children, and Rehael finally decided that enough was enough.

Looking down at the imp over their steepled fingers, Rehael asked, “Did you have some purpose for getting my attention, or are you just trying to be a nuisance?”

“Bein’ a nuisance is my purpose, feathers.” The imp grinned, giving a strange full-body shimmy. “Demon.”

“Well, do you think you could do that somewhere else?” Rehael sighed, rubbing the bridge of their nose. They’d been on Earth for only a few hours but were well on their way to their first headache. “I’m working.”

“Really? Looked like you were just staring off into space.”

“It was… recognizance.” They started to walk faster. “Which I have to get back to, actually… So, if that’s everything, I think I’ll go.”

The imp was practically jogging to keep up. “Aw, don’t go yet. I’ve been tryin’ to find you for the better part of five days. Name’s Dazil, by the way.”

Rehael looked askance at the grimy hand offered to them. They could refuse to answer of course (it didn’t occur to them to lie), but they couldn’t see the harm in telling a demon their name. “Rehael.” They did not take the hand. “Actually, hey. Did you say you’d been looking for me for five days?”

“Yeah,” Dazil shrugged, “Didn’t know where you’d touch down, so I’ve been popping around Europe for a bit. I was hopin’ you’d be on the same continent, at least. I mean, don’t get me wrong, airports are one of ours, but I don’t trust the look of planes.”

“Sorry you had to waste your time like that.” Rehael replied, cocking their head. “I just got here. To Earth, I mean. Not Paris specifically. I came down this morning.”

Noticing a change in the lighting and a growing level of quiet, Rehael took another look at their surroundings. Without meaning to, it seemed as though they had wandered into a park. It seemed to be as good a place as any for a clandestine meeting between two immortals. They didn’t have to try as hard to blend in like this, as the streetlamps here were few and far between and the few humans in the park this late at night seemed to be sleeping.

“Huh. Weird. Hell had me up and about on Monday.” Dazil scrunched their nose. “What took your lot so long?”

“I’m sure it isn’t my place to speculate.” Rehael bristled. “It’s been a busy week. These things take time, especially with Gabriel tied up in meetings off-site.”

At that, Dazil let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, bet he was.”

“… I take it he was in Hell, then?”

“Holiday Inn in Toronto is what I heard.” A snort. “Reminds me. I have something for you, Rehael.”

The angel was immediately suspicious. Watching the imp struggle with a zipper pouch at their waist that had gotten twisted around behind their back, Rehael took several steps backwards and bent their knees, preparing to fight or fly away depending on what kind of weapon Dazil was reaching for. Armistice or no Armistice, certain habits were difficult to break.

With a triumphant noise, Dazil produced a small object and held it aloft. Whatever it was, it made a crunching noise when it was pulled out of the pouch.

“What is it?” Rehael asked, squinting in the dark.

“Plant matter.” The pride was clear in Dazil’s voice as they waved the hand and grinned with too many teeth.

Sure enough, it was a plant. An ivy, maybe, at least at one point. Now, though, it was brown and dry and stringy. “It looks… dead.”

Dazil looked over at their own hand in surprise, opened their tight little fist, and frowned down at it. “Shit, I think I killed it. S’been in there for a while. Gimme a sec.” They snapped their fingers and Rehael flinched at the surge of demonic power, but the only thing that seems to have changed was that the bundle of leaves perked up and returned to life.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Rehael asked, making no move to reach for it.

The imp held their hand out again and shrugged. “Dunno. I’m supposed to give it to you, dunno what happens after that. I don’t think you’re supposed to eat it, though. I took a bite earlier, to see. Tasted like shit.” When Rehael still didn’t move to take it, Dazil flattened their palm and held it as far from their body as they could, like someone trying to feed a skittish horse. They raised their other hand to face height, open, to show that it was empty.

_Supposed to give it to me_? Rehael thought, baffled. _Is it a… some kind of demon thing_? A memory jostled its way to the surface of their thoughts: A photograph from the file they collected for Michael, about two hundred years old judging by the time stamp on the back, of Hell’s agent, the Serpent, lurking outside the Principality’s bookshop with a bundle of flowers in hand. Then Rehael made another connection, to the Venus Flytrap in Gabriel’s office and the way he smiled when he answered that call from Downstairs…

Well, Gabriel was supposed to be setting the example for all the angels working under him. If he’d been given a plant by a demon, surely it couldn’t be the wrong thing to do to accept it. Even though Rehael still didn’t see the point of it, they stepped closer and took the bunch of leaves from Dazil’s hand. Rehael had been half expecting to see claws, but the demon’s human form seemed to only have fingers. Unsure of what to do, Rehael gave Dazil an awkward smile.

Well, they couldn’t carry this plant around all day, and it looked like it still had some roots attached. Gabriel’s plant seemed to thrive in a pot, so maybe this one would, too. Rehael snapped their fingers and the clump of ivy disappeared.

Dazil frowned. “Didn’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that. The plant was… cool. I just, ah. I sent it back to my lodgings.” Rehael neglected to mention that they, strictly speaking, didn’t have lodgings yet. Gabriel was supposed to show them where they were to stay while in the city, but he had not been in contact since he shooed Rehael out of his office. Rehael didn’t even know where to begin with their duties in the city. They were unconcerned, though. They trusted that they would be given instructions in time, just as they trusted that a pot of ivy would be waiting in their lodgings when they were finally shown where to go.

Rehael cleared their throat. “So. Ah… Dazil.”

“Yup?”

“Are you Hell’s… only agent on Earth right now?”

Dazil squinted. “Are you tryin’ to be slick? And here I thought we were havin’ a nice conversation.”

The imp was right. Armistice or not, Gabriel had assured Rehael that their function on Earth was still to guide humanity towards the light, and to thwart any wiles they saw from the other team that might threaten that goal. After all, Heaven wanted to win after the next part of the Plan was finished and much of the Host’s strength came from the sway it held over the souls of mortals. It wouldn’t do to forget that in the field, not even for a second.

“No, no. It’s not like that.” Rehael shook their head. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”

“Are you the only angel up here?” They asked, then paused. “Proper angel, I mean.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that either, demon.” Rehael continued to walk, not fully sure of where they were going. Dazil kept pace as well as they could, and Rehael slowed down just a bit. It was only polite.

There was a pond in this park, big enough that the light from the streetlamps on the path nearby could not reach its smooth, shadowy center. As they passed, Rehael heard Dazil snicker.

“What’s so funny?” As a response, the imp pointed out at the water. Following the gesture, the only thing Rehael could see was a heron stalking through the shallows, taking long, careful steps with its spindly legs. “The… bird?”

“Looks like you, feathers.” The imp mimicked the heron’s walk with their fingers, and Rehael noticed that the webbing between them went up slightly higher than it would on a human hand. “Leggy git.”

The heron tensed for a moment, then struck, extending its long neck to stab into the water. It surfaced with a small fish impaled on the end of its sharp beak, its tail flopping uselessly as it tried to escape from its feathery doom. With a violent jerk of its head, the heron tossed the fish into the air and swallowed it. Rehael winced, thinking back on the spear they’d been expected to wield during Armageddon. Looking down, the ichthyic imp also seemed uncomfortable. If they’d come face to face with Dazil on that battlefield, Rehael had little doubt about who would have come out on top. It wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight.

Well, so far Dazil hadn’t done anything to warrant being stabbed. Not that Rehael would want to, or even could now that the Armistice was signed. The demons who had visited Heaven had been rude and made a mess of the elevator carpet, and the transfer in Research and Development gave them the willies, but Rehael supposed that’s just how demons were. No one had gotten stabbed, though. It just wasn’t the done thing, at least not right now.

There was a bench near the edge of the park, out of sight of the pond. They drifted towards it, and when they got close, Dazil hopped up and stretched their legs. Rehael stood nearby, awkward. Hanging out with a demon probably wasn’t what Gabriel had in mind for them to do when they sent them to Earth… but he also hadn’t been back in touch to let them know what they _were_ supposed to be doing. What was Rehael supposed to do, show initiative? At least here, they could make sure the demon didn’t go on another laser pointer rampage.

The sound of a zipper drew Rehael’s attention. Dazil was back in that waist pouch, and whatever they were after was crinkly this time. “Hey, I’ve got somethin’ else.”

“Is it another plant?”

“Nah.” Dazil produced a pair of brightly colored foil packages. They were small, about the size of a plum. “You had food yet?”

They tossed one to Rehael and unwrapped the other. Inside was a coil of paper wrapped around something that looked like a blue ribbon. Tossing aside the foil, they brought the end of the spiral to their lips and split the layers apart. Holding the blue part in their teeth, Dazil began to eat, drawing more and more of the candy ribbon into their mouth as they chewed. Below their chin, the discarded parts of the paper drooped and hung loose.

Dazil pointed at the pouch in Rehael’s hand. “Y’should try it. S’good. Had one t’test earlier.” They said around the dangling length of candy ribbon. Rehael could see the inside of their mouth turning blue as they chewed.

Rehael frowned. “Angels don’t eat, Dazil.”

“Do too.” They said. “Ones on Earth do, at least.”

Thinking back on the file they collected, the photographs of the other field agent… Rehael had to concede that Dazil was right, at least as far as that one Principality had been concerned. There had seemed to have been a lot of food in those pictures. Still, one couldn’t be too cautious when accepting food from demons. It had, historically, not been a wise decision, at least where humanity was concerned.

“That’s a sin, Dazil. Gluttony. I can’t do that. You know the rules.”

“S’not gluttony to eat human food. It’s… how’d that bastard say it?” Dazil scrunched their brows, trying to remember. “It’s _appreciation of what the humans make_. It’s only gluttony if you don’t share it, and I have one, so it’s fine.”

Dazil made a compelling argument, and Rehael had been thus far very impressed with most of humanity’s inventions that they’d encountered since landing on Earth—laser pointers being a notable exception, though they didn’t fully believe Dazil when they’d said Hell had not had a hand in their creation.

Rehael squinted at the foil. It purported to be made of something called a blue raspberry, and they couldn’t remember if that was actually a real kind of Earthly fruit or not. “What kind of food is this?”

“S’candy.” Another slurp, another few inches of ribbon sucked into the demon’s maw. “If you don’t eat it, I will. I'm allowed to do gluttony. Encouraged, actually.”

Cautiously, Rehael unwrapped the candy and pinched a corner away from the paper coil. After giving it an experimental sniff, they slipped the tiny bite into their mouth. The taste—not that they’d had many experiences from which to judge this by—was unexpectedly sweet, with just a tang of sour to balance it out. Determining this candy to be worth a second taste but unwilling to try and eat it like Dazil was, hands-free and hanging from their mouth like a grotesque tongue, Rehael unraveled the whole ribbon from the coil of paper. The resulting piece of candy was too long and ungainly to eat in any dignified fashion, so Rehael rolled it around in their hands until it formed a ball and took a bite out of it like it was a piece of fruit.

“He was right!” Dazil hissed quietly, eyes shining with excitement.

Rehael choked and spit the mouthful of candy out, dropping the rest of the ball on the ground as they scrambled away from the imp. “What did you do to me, fiend? Answer me!”

“No!” They yelped, shaking their head. Their own coil of candy dropped from their teeth and landed with a sticky slap on their leg. “Nothin’! I swear, I didn’t do anything to you! It’s just…” Dazil hesitated, seemingly expecting discorporation from an avenging angel, and when it didn’t come, they spoke again all in a rush, “Youonlyhaveonerowofteeth.”

“R…Repeat yourself, fiend. I, ah. I didn’t catch that last part.”

An exhale. “Teeth. You only have one row of ‘em. I normally have six.” Dazil bared their teeth to prove the point. “I got a tip that… that the best human disguises have only one row, and you only have one row, so it knew it was a good tip.”

Trying to imagine this awkward little creature with five more rows of blue-stained teeth in their already crowded mouth, Rehael laughed uneasily and said, “Your human disguise is very good. No… horns or claws, at least that I can see. And I’ve seen humans wearing clothing items that look like those, so… all together, it seems convincing.”

“No horns, but I did put the claws up,” Dazil said, wiggling their fingers, “Yours looks good, too.”

That got a genuine smile out of the angel. “I appreciate you saying that. I like it, too.”

“Been inside buildings much, since you came down?” When Rehael shook their head, Dazil tapped their own forehead and laughed. “Watch out for doors, feathers.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it.” They said, unsticking the candy ribbon from where it had landed on their thigh and starting to chew on it again. Rehael noticed that even their lips were stained blue now. “Bet you’ll figure it out soon, anyway.”

Rehael looked down at where their own candy had fallen, a bit put out. It seemed a shame to waste it, as they had only just gotten a taste of blue, sugary confection before being startled into dropping it. Surely it was less sinful to eat it than to let no one have it? With a snap of their fingers, the ball of candy reappeared in their other hand, completely cleaned of the dirt that had stuck to it on its landing. Glancing Heavenward, half expecting to see Gabriel hovering up there ready to scold, Rehael popped the whole thing in their mouth. It was awkward to chew such a large, gummy mass of sugar, but they still managed to finish their portion before the demon did.

“So.” Dazil said once they’d swallowed. “_Rehael_. That’s… it?” There was an odd smile on the imp’s thin lips that Rehael couldn’t understand.

“What do you mean? That’s my name.”

“No… title?” Dazil prodded, “Heard that angels all have big fancy titles. Last guy was… what did they call him? A Principality?”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Rehael nodded. “Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“That’s a mouthful. What do they call you?”

“Just Rehael.”

“So, you’re new, right?” Dazil squinted at them. “What were you before Earth? Were you a guard, too?”

“Ah, well. Sort of. We were all ready to fight in the War… Until the Armistice, of course.” There was an awkward pause while Rehael tried to find a way to explain their Heavenly duties without giving away too much or making them seem… well… _lame_. “I guess you could say I was a messenger.”

“Like for the humans? _Be not afraid_, and all that?” Dazil asked, saying the quote in as booming of a voice as their small frame could manage, which wasn't actually all that much.

“Oh. No, nothing like that. Never been down here before today, actually. I was a messenger for the other angels. Archangels, sometimes. If they needed something, I got it done. Files, mostly.”

“Huh.”

“What is it?” Rehael asked, a little unsettled by the way they’d said it, like Rehael had answered a question they didn’t even know Dazil had asked.

“Nothin’, don’t worry about it. You still have a lot of Earth to see. C’mon.” Dazil hopped down from the bench and looked expectantly up at Rehael. Rehael picked a direction and started walking. It sounded as if Dazil was trying to say something, and when they finally managed it, it didn’t explain much. “I… No title here, either. Dazil, imp.”

Rehael nodded. “And what, ah. What did you do before here, in Hell?”

“Bunch of boring shit, mostly. Sharpening pitchforks. Shredding forms so people’d have to do ‘em over again. Sometimes they had me on plumbing duty, unclogging the river Phlegethon if it had a soul back-up.” Dazil jabbed at the ground with an imaginary plunger.

Rehael had a thought. Not a full thought, but the beginning of something they couldn’t quite see the end of yet. “You, ah. Earlier you said _the last guy_. Heaven’s agent. Is the Principality Aziraphale no longer in the field?”

“Dunno, but I seriously doubt it.” Dazil shrugged and laughed. “You can’t jus’ do what he did and keep your job.”

For how much angels liked to chat around the proverbial water cooler, Rehael was surprised to hear that the imp knew something about Heaven they didn’t. The last Rehael had heard of Aziraphale had been when they’d handed his file over to Michael. “What did he do?”

Dazil gasped. Rehael couldn’t tell if they were being serious about it or not. “You seriously don’t know?”

Rehael shook their head.

“Big war, six thousand years in the making. Suddenly, no war at all. Ringing any bells?” The tone was sarcastic, but there was also a little glee there, too. Rehael recognized it from the times they got roped into hearing Sandalphon recount old smiting stories. It was the glee of sharing a story that, at least to the teller, was _juicy_.

“Of course, but—”

“He managed to piss a lot of people off, screwing that one up.”

Gabriel had never told any of them what happened that day on the battlefield. There must have been demons there, though, Rehael supposed. Additional witnesses. But something about this wasn’t adding up. “All by himself? One angel?”

Dazil leered. “Nah, not by himself.”

“Who, then?”

“Our last guy up here. Crowley.”

“Ah,” Rehael said, understanding the shape of things now, “Aziraphale was a traitor, then?”

“Yeah, I guess. So was our guy. Used to be some kind of big shot. Did the whole,” Dazil pantomimed a slithering motion with their hand, “Eden. Fall of Man. Thing.”

They walked on in silence for a while, until Rehael was able to get their mouth around what they wanted to ask. “So, the Principality? If I’ve replaced him… has he Fallen?”

Dazil kicked a rock. “Don’t think so. Never saw him in Hell, at any rate. Nah, bet your lot fired him, like Hell did ours.”

Not Fallen. Not in Hell. _Fired_.

Rehael recoiled in horror. They wouldn’t, Heaven couldn’t. If an angel disobeyed, they would Fall, that was the promise… but after the Great War, when they had learned about what Hellfire could do to angelic flesh, an unspoken threat hung over Heaven—that it was possible to be punished by something more permanent than Hell.

They remembered the demon in the elevator, his clothes stinking from smoke. The archangels had looked so grim. For days after, the shredders in the Earth Observation Office had been working around the clock, drowning out all talk in the surrounding offices with that crunching whine… Could it have been destroying the information Heaven had on the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, now that he had been—

_The photographs_. Rehael sent up a silent prayer, both a plea for forgiveness and a hope that the file they collected for Michael had been among the things that were shredded. They’d never met the Principality Aziraphale before, but by reputation he was known as an odd but harmless angel, one who was a bit preoccupied with human affairs but who always turned his reports in on time. Rehael felt a stab of guilt as they had the sudden, uncomfortable realization that the file they’d collected for Michael must have been evidence of the Principality’s crimes. Of course, he must have deserved… whatever fate had befallen him. He must have. Stopping Armageddon, that was working against the Great Plan, wasn’t it? He was a traitor. But obliteration… the barbarism of an execution by his own superiors… it was more than Rehael could contemplate, and they squirmed at the notion that they, personally, might have had a hand in it.

“Hey, uh. Doin’ okay over there, feathers?”

Rehael realized they’d stopped walking. The pair of them had found their way onto a foot bridge, empty in the moonlight. Not too far away was a church, scaffolding wrapping around it like armor. Rehael tore their gaze away from the river, where they’d been resolutely staring at absolutely nothing, but left their hands on the railing where they’d been holding on for dear life as the world around them spun. Dazil was looking up at them now, looking… well. It was unlikely the imp would be concerned about an angel’s wellbeing. Dazil looked curious, at any rate. “Yes, of course.”

“Did you. Well, y’know,” Dazil began, cautious, “Did you ever… meet him?”

“Az—the Principality?” Rehael’s body probably did not come preinstalled with a rough fingernail edge to for them worry with their other hand, but one appeared as the need presented itself. “Ah. No, never. I saw… records, though. Pictures.”

Dazil sidled up closer beside them and whispered, low and conspiratorial. “Records? You didn’t happen to see… about how he did the _thing_?”

“The… the thing?”

The imp pulled a face, all sharp teeth and exposed gums, and wiggled the fingers of both hands in front of their mouth like a… a beard? Eating a live squid head first? Rehael didn’t know how to interpret the gesture, and the strange breathy hissing noise they were making wasn’t helping. Still unable to parse the imp’s intended meaning, Rehael was at least grateful that they didn’t have a human audience for… whatever this was.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“They really didn’t tell you anythin’ up there, did they?” Rolling those weird, watery eyes of theirs, Dazil popped another snack from the zipper pouch—this time something small, orange, and crunchy—into their mouth and started to talk. “We sent a guy up. First one of ours to be Upstairs in… ever, I guess. It was a real big deal, an’ he told us all everything when he got back Down. Hellfire. A bonfire of it, right up top, all the archangels watchin’. No guards, no trial. They jus’ told the Principality to walk in and burn for what he did.”

Rehael didn’t want to find out what getting sick to their stomach in this body felt like, so they quietly turned off their digestive system. The candy-ribbon-ball would be a problem for a future Rehael. “I don’t think I want to hear the rest, Dazil.”

Dazil was getting worked up telling the story and either didn’t hear Rehael or didn’t care. “But here’s the thing. He didn’t burn. Not even a hair on his head. An’ then he just… opened up his mouth an’ spit Hellfire at Gabriel and them. Must’ve scared the shit out of them. Scared the shit out of our guy for sure.”

“He did _what_?” Rehael shook their head. “No way. You sure he didn’t Fall? Because we can’t do that. Has to be a demon.”

Dazil shrugged. “Not one of ours. Thought we might get him, there for a bit, but nah. Dunno what he is, but he’s not Fallen. We’d know.”

“Are you lying to me, Dazil?”

The imp put a hand up, index and pinky held straight, middle and ring fingers behind the thumb. “Swear to Satan I’m not.”

“What… what, ah. Your side. Crowley. Did they, ah…” Voice barely audible, Rehael trailed off, hands twitching uselessly as they tried and failed to come up with a hand gesture that would communicate the horror of being utterly destroyed, body and soul, removed from the universe and condemned to nonexistence. In the end, they settled for crudely drawing their finger across their throat and hoping the imp got the picture.

Dazil responded at normal volume, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil Rehael was currently experiencing. “What’re you talking about? Nobody cut his head off. Nah, that bastard’s fine. And it’s not like it’s for lack of trying. Went ass-first into a whole bathtub of bloody Holy Water.” The imp paused for effect, giving a shiver that told Rehael they were both unsettled and a little awed. “And it was potent, too! Dissolved that poor bugger they threw in there to test it like he was nothin’. But he didn’t die.”

“I don’t understand,” Rehael whispered, “How… how does a demon survive contact with Holy Water?”

“Wish I fuckin’ knew. He’s sure not tellin’ anybody. Why’s an angel not lit up like a dead Christmas tree when you toss ‘em in Hellfire? Who’s to say.”

Rehael propped their forearms up on the railing of the bridge and looked down over the river below. “Alright, Dazil. Important question.”

“Go for it.”

“What happened to them next?”

“Went home, I guess.”

That’s what Rehael had been afraid of. “Not to their offices, you mean?”

“Nah. They both just came back to Earth and continued doin’ whatever was so bloody important they had to go and stop Armageddon for it.” Dazil made a circle with their thumb and forefinger and stuck their other thumb through it.

“Earth.” Rehael repeated, numb, not even registering the filthy gesture. “They’re… here?”

“Yeah. Crowley’s in London. Saw him Monday, before I left. He’s the one who told me about the teeth thing.”

“You… spoke to him?”

Dazil suddenly looked defensive. “Yeah, so what? I had questions.”

“So, Crowley is in London, and Aziraphale is…?”

“Probably in London, too. Soho, I think?”

“You’re telling me that there’s a demon loose that can’t be killed with Holy Water, and an angel who can spit Hellfire. And you’re telling me that they’re just… _Right there_?” Rehael waved a hand in a vaguely north-ish direction, starting to get frantic. “Do you have any idea how close Paris and London are? I suppose it’d be even faster if they flew.”

“Rehael.” Dazil said, climbing up a rung on the bridge railing to get closer to head height with the angel. “Relax. I don’t think they’re gonna come after us.”

“Why not? Our sides just tried to kill them, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that _it didn’t work. Somehow._” Rehael trailed off into a wordless groan.

“I mean, yeah. Course they’re pissed off. I mean, Crowley said he was gonna snap my neck if he saw me again. But I still feel like it’s nothin’ to worry about.” The imp’s voice was entirely too casual.

“_Nothing to worry about_?” Rehael repeated, almost shouting. “He said he was going to kill you!”

“Yeah, but he didn’t. That’s normal demon talk. Demons all threaten each other, and a lot of ‘em make good on it.” Dazil shrugged. “That’s if he even still is a demon. Don’t ask me, I don’t bloody understand it either. But if they wanted to, either one of ‘em could have killed me, and I’m still here. I’ve gotta assume they just wanna be left alone.”

“Please tell me you’re making this up.”

“Wish I was, feathers. It freaks me out, too. But I don’t think it’s our problem. At least not yet.” Dazil shifted their weight on the railing. “Our side signed a deal with Crowley. Hell’s gonna leave ‘em both alone. Since you’re not on surveillance duty in Soho, my guess is that Principality and Heaven’re on similar terms. We just gotta stay out of their way.”

“Dazil.” Rehael whined. “Why us? I mean, no offense, but both of us are pretty much on the bottom rung at work. Or. Maybe it’s the top rung for you? I don’t know. Does Hell do that part backwards? Point is, neither of us are who I’d pick for field duty with a _fire-breathing angel_ and a _Holy-Water-proof demon_ walking around.”

“Didya ever think maybe that’s _why_ they picked us?” Dazil said, elbowing them lightly in the ribs.

“What do you mean?”

“All that work they’re doin’ to get ready. Can’t just be for the humans, can it? There’s something fucked up on Earth they’re scared of.” Dazil was acting casual, but beneath it, Rehael could tell the imp was tense. “There's those two, and nobody knows how _that_ happened. Plus, there’s the Antichrist, no one knows what he’s plannin' these days. An’ of course none of the bosses wanna take field duty for themselves. Who would? But us…”

“You can’t be serious.”

Dazil just kept talking, like they hadn’t even heard the interruption. “I mean, it doesn’t matter if we get killed up here, does it? Not to them, I mean. Why else send two nobodies up here? I reckon we’re expendable to ‘em. They can just keep sendin’ down other losers to keep an eye on things until the End. Buy ‘em time.”

As much as they hated it, Dazil’s logic made a certain amount of sense. Rehael thought of the auditorium during Gabriel’s call for volunteers, and how the Host had remained so still and quiet for so long. At the time, Rehael had wondered if this might be an unpleasant job, but now… How many of the others known what Earth had in store for them, and just said nothing? Had they really volunteered for a suicide mission?

“I just don’t get it.” Rehael moaned, the despair starting to win over the panic. “Why not someone stronger? Somebody who’d have a bloody _chance_. Why not… I dunno? Michael? Or on your side… Beelzebub?”

“I don’t know about Michael,” Dazil began with a smirk, “But Beelzebub’s been busy keeping Gabriel tied up in Toronto. Or maybe they’re back down in Hell again, I dunno.” Rehael got the strangest feeling that Dazil was changing the subject, almost as if they were trying to cheer them up.

Dazil repeated the gesture from earlier, with the thumb going into the circle of the other fingers. Rehael saw it this time, but just stared at it, not comprehending.

“Your boss,” Dazil said, holding up the hand with the thumb and forefinger touching, “And my boss,” They continued, holding up their other thumb, “Are shagging.” They concluded, completing the gesture.

“No.” Rehael said, dismissing it out of hand.

“Yes.”

“_No_.”

“_Yes_. Everybody in Hell knows. We made Beelzebub a cake to congratulate them.”

“…you did?”

“_No, of course not_.” Dazil groaned, rubbing their hands on their face. “Don’t be dumb. But they _are_ shaggin’. We _know_ they are ‘cause they kept hookin’ up in Beelzebub’s office until Dagon had to get ‘em to stop. That’s why they went to Toronto.”

“You’re making this up. This is fake. This is made up.” Rehael repeated the words like a mantra. They couldn’t take this, not on top of everything else they learned tonight.

Dazil fished their phone from the zipper pouch, wiped snack crumbs off the screen on the bottom of their crop top, and passed it to Rehael. “Scroll up as far as you want, s’all we’ve been jokin’ about all week. Just, uh, just stay in that tab. Don’t click on to any of the other channels.”

Rehael stared down at the screen, scrolling with a fingertip and trying to make sense of what they were seeing. “What is this?”

“Group chat.” Dazil grunted. “All the imps are in it.”

“And… and what are these? All these pictures?” They pointed down at it. Rehael’s cultural debriefing had been very… brief… and there was a lot they didn’t understand about the ways modern humans interacted. Even still, the pamphlets had hit a lot of the highlights and Rehael was able to recognize a few of the images. One of them, which they held up to Dazil hoping for an explanation, was a picture of the former United States President Barack Obama that had been cropped down until only his eyes were visible.

“Those are memes.” The patience in Dazil’s voice was strained. “You don’t have those in Heaven?” Rehael shook their head. “Oh, for Lucifer’s—Look. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do, feathers, but for now, d’you believe me that it isn’t just me making this up?”

Rehael looked down at the phone again. There was a photograph, blurry and taken from a bit of a distance, of Lord Beelzebub wearing a very distinctive purple cashmere scarf around their neck. It clashed with the rest of their outfit… but for a demon, were fashion sins to be encouraged? Either way, Rehael unfortunately remembered seeing Gabriel wearing it before he disappeared from Heaven… and that he hadn’t been wearing it in his office. With a groan, they passed Dazil back their phone. “Yeah, sure. Why, though?”

“Why, what?”

“Why would they…” Unbidden, Rehael felt their hands go to copy Dazil’s rude gesture. They held on tight to the railing instead. “You’d think they’d… explode, or something. Be struck down. I don’t know. Seems like a risk.”

Dazil shrugged. “Guess not. S’far as I know only a few have tried it, and they’re all still alive.”

Rehael couldn’t even muster the energy to be shocked anymore. “A few?” They repeated, monotone. “There’ve been—more?”

“Yeah. Gabe and Beez…” Dazil said, laughing at the raised eyebrow the nicknames brought on. “Crowley and the Principality.”

“Cool. Good to know everyone’s taking the Armistice seriously.” Rehael said, nodding sagely. “Our bosses, and the rogue agents who are probably going to fly over from London and kill us. Good to know. Anyone else… what did you call it?”

“Shagging?” Dazil supplied helpfully.

Rehael shot them a tired look. “_Hooking up_.”

“Jus’ those four, s’far as I know.” _Dear God in Heaven, did the imp just wink_? “But who knows? Might be a real long Armistice.”

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than giving me a dying plant and bad news, Dazil.” Rehael sighed. Beside them, Dazil froze.

“…Right. Yeah, sure. Fine.”

There was a metallic ringing noise, and Rehael dimly became aware that it was coming from the railing of the bridge, which they had apparently been tapping with their fingers incessantly for some time now. That must have been annoying. Rehael stilled their hands and listened to the sound fade out.

“Dazil. I think I’m having a problem.” They said, voice stilted.

“What’s wrong?”

“My… corporation.” Rehael said, running a shaking hand along their throat where their pulse was jumping. “I believe I am experiencing a lot of stress, and I don’t know how to turn that setting off.”

“Ah.” Dazil clicked their tongue. “Think that’s comin’ from the brain. Can’t turn that off or you’ll die. Er, discorporated, I guess. Maybe a coma? I’m still fuzzy on what can or can’t hurt us.”

“What do the humans do to calm down, then?”

The imp’s expression brightened. “Lots of things,” They said, reaching into the pouch to retrieve two small glass bottles full of a pale yellow liquid. “Some more fun than others.”

“What’s that?”

“Wine,” Dazil said, shaking them, “Travel size. It’s what would fit in the pouch.”

Normally, Rehael would think twice about accepting anything as potentially tempting as alcohol from a demon, but… well, the humans had used wine for thousands of years as a sacrament, hadn’t they? And it had been a very long day. “Give me that.” They muttered, taking the bottle out of Dazil’s hand and unscrewing the cap.

Their experiences with food were incredibly limited, but Rehael was unpleasantly surprised to find that the wine tasted sweet and bitter at the same time, too bitter to really savor. They reflexively ran their tongue across the bottom of their teeth to try to get rid of the taste, looking over at the demon leaning on the railing next to them. As they watched, Dazil uncapped their own bottle, tilted their head back, and poured the wine straight into their throat. Their mouth had, sure enough, only one row of teeth. The lack of a need for breathing meant they could chug indefinitely, and in a moment or two, all the wine was gone. Tentatively, Rehael copied the motion and downed the rest of their own bottle. It tasted a lot better when it bypassed the tongue altogether.

Their heart was still pounding. “I still feel stress. What do I do?”

Dazil shrugged. “What’s causing the stress?”

Rehael gestured around them helplessly. “This? All of this, I think. Learning all about what happened, thinking we’re going to get murdered by those two monsters in London… it’s too much.”

“Sometimes… More alcohol can help.” Dazil said, with the air of trying to sound like an expert on a completely unfamiliar subject. “Sometimes the humans do other things besides alcohol, but that was all I had on me.”

Looking down at the small bag at the imp’s hip, Rehael asked, “Do you have more alcohol? I think I want more alcohol.”

“Nah. That was all I had. But! I do know where we can get some.” Dazil said, grinning. “Passed by a few places when I was out lookin’ around. You just gotta follow the loud music an’ drunk humans.  


…

  
Five hours later, close to dawn, Rehael and Dazil found themselves back in the park, sitting on the foot path near the pond. They were hidden from the humans again—wisely, as they had attracted some unwanted attention from local law enforcement over the course of the evening—and Rehael had used a subtle miracle to make sure the waterfowl stayed away as well. The birds made Dazil uneasy, especially the herons, and with liquid courage backing them up the imp had waded into the pond to chase them away.

It had taken a few minutes for Rehael to persuade Dazil to get out of the water again, but the music had been an excellent lure. _It won’t work if its wet_, Rehael had told them, and it had sounded like something that made sense given what they knew about electricity and human technology, so it was less of a lie and more of a statement of expert opinion with nothing to back it up. _I’m just going to keep listening to both of them until you get out_, Rehael had said, tapping both earpieces as a gentle threat. It had worked, though, and Rehael was soon sitting back-to-back with a dripping imp, left earpiece warbling out words that the angel, if they’d been a bit more sober, might not have admitted they found quite so relatable.

_They let you dream just to watch 'em shatter,_  
You're just a step on the boss-man's ladder,  
But you got dreams he'll never take away… 

Earlier in the night, when Rehael convinced the imp to tip out the contents of their “funny little zipper pouch of demonic secrets”, they had discovered the existence of a pair of white metal earpieces. Dazil hadn’t known what they were (they had just appeared along with the crop top and zipper pouch when they mimicked a human’s clothing), but Rehael figured it out by observation: humans riding the Métro wore them in their ears to listen to music. The angel hadn’t quite made the connection that the music came from somewhere other than the earpieces themselves, but technicalities like that didn’t matter to a creature with access to miracles.

They had taken turns at first, but they quickly realized it was possible to take an earpiece each and listen at the same time. Not knowing much of anything about human music, they simply listened to whatever the earpieces decided to share. Rehael had kept an open mind, enjoying most everything they were shown. Dazil developed preferences quickly. The current object of their demonic obsession was a particular human singer with a clear, strong voice and vibrato for days. Rehael couldn’t say they minded.

_You're in the same boat with a lotta your friends,_  
Waitin' for the day your ship'll come in,  
An' the tide's gonna turn and it's all gonna roll your way… 

It had been almost twenty-four hours since Rehael’s arrival on Earth, and Gabriel had still not been in touch. They still weren’t completely sure they believed Dazil’s story about him and Beelzebub—it seemed a little far-fetched, but then again, Gabriel had omitted a number of things about Earth and its inhabitants during his debriefing. Why not omit that, too?

Rehael was obedient, but surely the higher ups wouldn’t expect them to walk into Hellfire for them? Not for no reason. Not when they hadn't done anything wrong. No, they couldn’t stay in Paris, not with danger so close at hand. Upstairs didn’t seem to have sent them down to do battle with the London Agents, as Rehael had taken to calling them in their mind, or to observe them. The lack of pamphlets on the United Kingdom suggested that Heaven had been hoping their new agent would just stay away from the traitors and never find out they existed. Rehael was fine with that. As an angel, they didn’t sleep and therefore they did not dream, but if they were capable of it, they knew that angels who breathed fire would feature heavily in their nightmares.

With a lot of alcohol in their systems, Rehael and Dazil had cooked up a plan.

_…They just use your mind and they never give you credit,  
It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it…_

Heaven and Hell were fine with collaboration between their sides now, if it was to further the goals of the Plan. Surely not dying in a haze of Hellfire fit under that description. Rehael had to believe that. This plan was all a part of the Armistice. Totally not treason.

It would be easier if they could just _ask_ Gabriel for a transfer. They couldn’t, though, not so soon after picking Paris out of all of the _blasted_ cities in the world. Besides, the idea of talking to Gabriel about the reason for the transfer request, or about London at all, didn’t seem like a safe idea. If Gabriel had wanted them to know about the London Agents, about the attempted execution, he would have told them. There would probably even be questions about how they’d found out, and Rehael wanted to have that conversation even less. If Gabriel was going to keep secrets… so could Rehael.

It would be some time yet before Heaven and Hell’s plans came to fruition, the next great conflict still a distant dot on the horizon. In the meantime, Rehael had been placed on Earth to lead humans towards the light and thwart demonic wiles. If that mission happened to coincide with Rehael’s desire to get as far as possible away from the city of London as quickly as they could, Gabriel didn’t need to know that. If it turned out that there were no demonic wiles to thwart in Paris, but a sudden influx of demonic wiles cropped up somewhere else—say, on the other side of the globe—it would be imperative that Rehael leave immediately to see that those got thwarted.

In a few hours, when the sun was truly risen and they had sobered themselves up, they’d part ways and Dazil would get to work. Demons, after all, didn’t need permission to travel far afield to enact their mischief. As soon as Gabriel was in touch, Rehael would let him know about the troubling demonic presence stirring up trouble over in… well, actually, they hadn’t picked a destination yet. Dazil had told them of the existence of something called Google that could answer all their questions, and they were planning on searching up a good place to set up shop far from London as soon as they were sober enough for Dazil to remember where this Google was.

_…Yeah, they got you where they want you,  
There's a better life, and you dream about it, don't you?_

Looking back at the tower they’d first sat on to observe their new domain, Rehael thought something privately that they hadn’t let slip through before now, at least not with any focus of specificity. _The world was supposed to be rubble by now_, they thought, _and someday, it will be_. The Armistice was temporary. Someday, after the threat of Earth was dealt with, Heaven and Hell could resume the war footing they’d backed off from, and they would tear one another apart. All the temporary alliances would end.

Rehael’s thoughts turned, unbidden, to the heron eating the fish. _I wouldn’t hesitate_, they thought, _I would be quick and decisive, they’d never feel a thing_. They weren’t adversaries, not with the truce, but it wasn’t like they could be friends, either. It would all be over someday, and no matter how much food or drink or jokes they shared, it wouldn’t matter.

Temporary though it was, and as terrified as they were of the monsters that lurked across the Channel, as betrayed as they were for being sent here to face them alone, Rehael had to admit that all of this was… sort of fun. They’d only been on Earth for a day, but already it had been the most unusual and fulfilling time in their long memory. _I’m glad it didn’t burn. I’m glad I got to see it while it is still alive,_ Rehael thought, _I’m glad I got to be here_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Dolly Parton and _9 to 5_ for keeping me sane as I go to work every day in a world that feels like it's going to end any day now. I am a sad millennial intern, and therefore so were those two idiots in the story.
> 
> Reasons why this chapter took so long to write, ranked in order of how significantly they kicked my ass:  
3\. Graduate school, y'all  
2\. It was going to be short but it turned into an absolute monster of a chapter  
1\. I had two (2) whole characters to name
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this and interacted with me along the way. I appreciate you more than I could ever express. I hope this chapter brings this fic to a satisfying conclusion and makes it feel like it's part of wider events, plot-wise.
> 
> I want to keep writing fic for this fandom. I have an outline for something written out, but I'm using that as a carrot to motivate myself to take care of real life things. If you have any suggestions for fics you want to see written, let me know in the comments. There's no guarantee I will be able to write those, but I really want to hear from y'all about what things you enjoy in fics.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first posted fic. I have two weeks of summer break and I'm about to go feral on this while I still can.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Serpent of Eden, Original Tempter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752085) by [Emamel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel)


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